AMSICL 

BY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

PAUL  TURNER,  U.S.M.C.R. 

KILLED  IN  ACTION,  SAIPAN 

JUNE,  1944 


<?  r  / 


BY  MYRTLE   REED 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN. 

LATER  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN. 

THE  SPINSTER  BOOK. 

LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE. 

PICKABACK  SONGS. 

THE  SHADOW  OF  VICTORY. 

THE  MASTER'S  VIOLIN. 

THE  BOOK  OF  CLEVER  BEASTS. 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  JACK-O'-LANTERN. 


^  ^|  ||  LATER 
LOVE  LETTERS 
OE  A  MUSICIAN 


By  Myrtle  Peed 

Author  of  "  Love  Letters  of  a  Musician  " 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York  and  London 

fmtcherbocfcer  press 
1906 


COPYRIGHT,  1900 

BY 

MYRTLE  REED 


Set  up  and  electrotyped,  Aug.,  1900 

Reprinted,  September,  1900;  November,  1900;  June,  igoi ; 
September,  1901 ;  April,  1902  ;  October,  1902 ;  July,  1903  ; 
September,  1903  ;  January,  1905  ;  April,  1905  ;  October,  1905  j 
March,  1906 


Ube  ftntcfcerbocfter  frees,  Hew 


iii 

P53 

•3K*szi. 

JL 

Contents 

PART  I 

PAGE 

THE  ANGEL  OF  MEMORY  . 

5 

y 

(Contents 

SEPTEMBER  AT  HER  LOOM         .        . 

ii 

TOWARD  THE  STARS        .        .        . 

•     17 

THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  STONE      .        . 

-     23 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  RAIM  . 

.     29 

THE  MESSAGE  OF  GREY  WINGS 

•      35 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  HEART  . 

•      43 

AFTER  THE  STORM  .... 

»      49 

SOME  DAY     

mm 

PART  11 

INDIAN  SUMMER       .... 

•           63 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  STREAM 

•           69 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE  ..... 

•      75 

THE  HOUSE  OF  DREAMS   . 

.      81 

THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  THE  DEEP  . 

.      87 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  SUN     . 

•      93 

LOST  RIVER    .        .        .                , 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  CASTLE  CHRISTMAS  . 

.     103 

THE  WEAVING  OF  THE  YEAR    .        . 

.     106 

654517 


3Later 


^Letters  of  a  /IDusician 


PART  III 

Contente      THE  HEART  OF  LOVE         .  . 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  MASTER  MUSICIAN 

THE  CITY  OF  FLAME 

THE  WINE  OF  LIFE  . 

THE  BUILDERS  OF  THE  FROST    .        . 

A  VALENTINE 

TRAILING  ARBUTUS  . 
A  NOCTURNE  . 

"  AUF  WlEDERSEHEN  " 


PAGE 
117 

123 
129 

'35 
141 


157 


PART  ONE 


ttbe  angel  of  flDemors 

BnDante 


SCHUMANN 


DEVOTION 


3be  Hngel  of  flDemon? 

I  LITTLE  thought,  My  Lady,  when  last  I 
wrote  to  you,  that  I  should  ever  do  it 
again.  I  could  imagine  no  circumstance,  no 
unfriendly  Fate,  that  should  take  me  from 
your  side.  But  the  veiled  Future  has  ever 
strange  things  in  store  for  us,  and  so  to-night 
I  am  away  from  you  —  not  willingly,  as  you 
know. 

Five  golden  years,  Heart  of  Mine,  have  we 
walked  the  way  of  life  together,  and  there  is 
not  an  hour  I  would  have  changed  ;  there  is 
no  moment  when  I  would  have  you  other 
than  you  have  been.  It  is  the  fashion  these 
days,  I  know,  to  say  that  love  ends  at  the 
altar,  but  it  is  not  so.  You  and  I  have  found 
the  old  dream  of  the  world  divinely  true.  It 
is  neither  a  poet's  fancy  nor  a  trick  of  the 
imagination,  but  a  thing  of  fadeless  and  un 
ending  beauty. 

To-night  the    face    of   all   the    world    is 


%ater  Xove  ^Letters 


ttbc 

Bngel  of 
flDemocg 


changed.  I  can  hear  the  sleepy  twittering 
of  the  birds  in  the  twilight  stillness,  and  the 
air  is  faintly  stirred  by  the  soft  flutter  of 
drowsy  wings.  Every  wayfaring  thrush  and 
robin  has  gone  home  to  his  leafy  bower,  to 
be  welcomed  by  bright  eyes  and  rapturous 
heart  —  and  I  am  not  to  go  to  you. 

I  can  see  you  now  as  you  stood  at  the  gate 
when  I  turned  to  look  back  after  the  last 
good-bye.  I  can  see  the  mist  of  sorrow  in 
your  sweet  eyes  and  your  dear  hands  reach 
ing  out  to  mine.  Your  fingers  were  on  my 
heart-strings  then,  and  it  seemed  as  if  I  could 
not  go. 

I  wonder,  after  all,  if  we  have  had  what 
the  world  calls  a  home  —  if  it  has  not  rather 
been  a  regained  and  glorified  Eden.  At  the 
beginning  it  seemed  impossible  for  you  to  be 
even  a  little  dearer  than  you  were,  but  each 
day  has  bound  us  closer  together,  and  now  I 
realise,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  that  we  are 
truly  one. 

Night  comes  to  the  tired  heart  as  well  as  to 
the  world.  The  restless  fever  of  life  must 
sometimes  pause  ;  at  midday,  it  may  be,  or 
in  those  sunny  silences  of  the  afternoon  when 


©f  a  /IDusician 


the  long  light  rests  upon  the  hills  and  the 
waning  day  breathes  sadness.  When  the 
stillness  comes,  it  is  like  a  sanctuary  from 
which  the  last  worshipper  has  departed,  leav 
ing  the  soul  to  itself. 

And  then,  as  a  nun  to  the  cloister,  comes 
the  Angel  of  Memory.  Her  light  feet  make 
no  sound  and  upon  her  grey  wings  lies  the 
Dew  of  Forgetfulness.  For  it  is  she  who  is 
the  guardian  of  the  soul. 

Give  her  but  a  little  time  and  she  will  sift 
out  all  the  pleasure  from  thy  pain,  all  the 
sweetness  from  thy  sorrow,  and  all  the  love 
from  thy  life.  Heart-aches  are  forgotten, 
tears  lose  their  bitterness,  and  like  a  leaf  of 
lavender  in  a  store  of  linen,  so  does  Memory 
make  life  sweet. 

Into  my  soul  hath  she  stepped  again  to 
night.  Her  stately  candles  gleam  in  silver 
sconces  and  there  is  joy  upon  her  uplifted 
face.  The  love  that  passeth  all  understanding 
shines  in  her  unfathomed  eyes,  for  she  keeps 
only  the  gold  that  comes  into  her  mysterious 
hands,  scattering  the  dross  afar  upon  the  slow 
waters  of  Lethe. 

For  a  moment  she  kneels  at  the  altar,  and 


ttbe 
Hmicl  of 


OLater  Stove  Xettets  of  a  /iDustcian 


Bnflcl  of 


peace,  like  a  benediction,  fills  the  doubting, 
troubled  heart.  The  deep  notes  of  the  organ 
steal  upon  the  stillness,  swelling  into  splendid 
chords,  as  though  all  the  beauty  and  sweet 
ness  of  life  were  woven  into  sound. 

She  will  make  her  music  in  any  weary  soul 
—  symphony,  sonata,  or  majestic  fugue ; 
hymn  of  praise  or  prayer  of  faith.  Her  full 
tones  may  voice  the  grandeur  of  the  sea,  the 
rush  of  storm  and  conflict,  the  resonant  paean 
of  victory,  or  the  solemn  minors  of  defeat. 

But  blest  above  all  men  is  he  who  hears  no 
bugle-call  to  battle,  no  thunder  of  shot  and 
shell,  nor  even  cry  of  triumph,  and  for  whom 
the  melody  is  softened  to  a  love-song. 

For  him,  then,  Memory's  candles  set  alight 
a  woman's  face  —  stray  threads  of  sun  caught 
in  the  shadowy  softness  of  the  hair,  an  ex 
quisite  tenderness  in  the  lines  of  the  sweet 
mouth,  and  the  love -light,  true  and  holy, 
aflame  forever  in  eyes  like  yours. 


September  at  ber  %oom 


CBAMIKADB 


33 


B2 


s=*=* 


Lrr 


^ 


r 


iAH  ~=  —    fT~3 

hj 

^T5 

y''V      r'— 

,,  r  r 

t 

^"^    ^  — 

•J.  - 

10 


II 


September  at  ber  Xoom 

WESTERDAY  I  went  through  Paradise.  The 

1  roadway  was  bordered  with  maples  in 
garments  of  such  radiance  as  artist's  brush 
may  not  paint  nor  the  pen  of  poet  describe. 

An  enchanted  silence  hovered  over  the 
woods.  There  was  no  sound  save  the  hushed 
murmur  of  falling  leaves,  the  dropping  of 
nuts,  and  the  scamper  of  the  Little  People 
of  the  Forest  in  feathers  and  fur. 

The  crimson  and  yellow  of  some  of  the 
maples,  the  brilliant  gold-green  of  others,  and 
the  russet  colouring  of  the  oaks,  shading  almost 
to  purple,  blended  together  in  sunset  harmony. 
Like  a  tawny  ribbon  trailed  amidst  the  pa 
geantry,  the  road  wound  across  the  fields  and 
over  the  hill. 

Who  would  not  follow,  when  the  soul  of 
the  woods  has  thrilled  in  answer  to  the  bugles 
of  the  frost !  Along  the  unknown  road  I 
went,  following  the  Spirit  of  Summer  I  knew 
had  gone  that  way. 


12 


Xater  Xove  Xetters 


September 
at  Dec 

loom 


Her  skirts  had  touched  the  fields  with  the 
sweetness  of  her  passing,  and  the  whir  of 
gossamer  wings  still  made  tremulous  music, 
not  knowing  she  was  far  beyond  their  spell. 
Here  and  there  an  ungathered  harvest  waited  in 
royal  patience  for  the  tardy  reapers,  and  upon 
the  fallow  earth  lay  the  autumn  beauty  which 
in  its  very  sadness  holds  the  hope  of  spring. 

Tiny  webs  lay  amidst  the  stubble  in  the 
shorn  fields.  Through  the  rustling  aisles  of 
corn  a  fairy  lace  swung  across  the  tasselled 
pathways.  On  the  slope  of  the  hill,  the  same 
lace,  delicately  woven,  lay  over  the  clustered 
purple  of  the  vine. 

Along  the  road  the  berries  of  the  bitter 
sweet  made  glowing  spots  of  colour,  while 
here  and  there  a  scarlet  sentinel  stood  at  the 
tomb  of  a  dead  wild  rose.  There  was  a  fra 
grance  in  the  air,  as  of  some  beautiful,  fleet 
ing  thing. 

Afar  in  the  meadow  were  masses  of  yellow 
and  purple  bloom,  where  goldenrod  and  aster 
had  emblazoned  wondrous  beauty  on  the 
earth.  There  were  drifts  of  white  among 
them  —  a  hint  of  the  snow  which  all  too  soon 
should  hide  them  every  one. 


a  /Musician 


There  was  an  apple  orchard  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  and  the  trees  were  bending  with  the 
wealth  of  their  yellow  and  blood-red  fruit. 
The  gnarled  and  crooked  trunks  were  full 
of  mysterious  channels  through  which  the 
hidden  sweetness  had  found  its  way.  Sun 
and  dew  had  gone  to  make  the  orchard  treas 
ure,  with  some  alchemy  of  blossoms  and 
dust. 

The  long  light  touched  the  tree-tops  with 
an  aureole,  and  slowly  I  climbed  the  hill. 
Down  below  me  lay  the  plain  with  the  sunset 
touch  upon  it,  shading  through  brilliant  green 
to  gold  and  crimson,  then  through  blue  dusk  to 
the  deeper  blue  of  the  sea  far  beyond.  It  was 
as  if  a  rainbow  had  lain  down  upon  the  earth 
to  die  of  very  love  for  the  summer  that  had 
passed. 

The  divine  stillness  grew  deeper  and  the 
fairy  patter  of  the  Little  People  of  the  Forest 
was  strangely  silent.  The  fields  were  in  the 
shadow  now,  but  the  lambent  colour  still  lay 
around  me  and  on  the  far-off  hills. 

I  turned  for  one  last  look,  and  from  behind 
a  luminous  screen  of  gold  and  crimson  leaves 
there  came  a  light  too  great  for  my  eyes  to 


September 
at  *cr 
loom 


%ater  %ot>e  ^Letters  of  a 


September 
at  tec 
loom 


bear.  There  was  a  soft  humming,  a  delicate 
whir,  and  something  in  the  air  like  a  low  song 
suddenly  ceased.  It  was  as  though  I  had 
heard  you  singing  softly  to  yourself  and  at 
the  sound  of  my  step  you  had  become  silent. 

I  went  down  the  hill,  my  heart  a-tremble 
with  the  beauty  of  the  world  and  the  old, 
immeasurable  love  of  you.  All  unawares  I 
had  come  upon  the  tapestry  maker,  and  her 
face  is  not  for  mortal  eyes  to  see. 

For  I  had  heard  the  weaving  of  the  autumn 
and  I  knew  that,  behind  that  golden  screen 
and  in  that  more  than  earthly  light,  Septem 
ber  sat  at  her  loom. 


ttowarfc  tbe  Stare 

BnOante  Oiueto 


PATHETIC  SYMPHONY 
Adagio 


TSCMAIKOWSKT 


>rr r 


I 


tfoe  Stare 


AM  seven  hundred  miles  farther  away  from     unimnte 
you,  My  Lady,  and  I  feel  them  every  one. 


But  it  is  only  for  a  week,  and  three  concerts, 
and  then  I  shall  go  back  to  the  old  distance 
and  be  just  that  much  nearer. 

Two  days  ago  I  went  up  into  the  mount 
ains.  We  were  to  start  at  dawn  for  a  distant 
peak  and  so  I  went  to  sleep  at  an  unac 
customed  time.  The  stars  shine  like  signal- 
fires  in  these  high  altitudes,  sending  rays  of 
jewelled  splendour  into  the  farthest  dark. 

There  was  no  hint  of  light  when  we  started, 
but  our  horses  knew  the  way.  There  is  some 
thing  unearthly  in  being  abroad  at  such  an 
hour.  Far  ahead  of  us  the  mountains  lay,  as 
they  have  lain  for  unnumbered  centuries,  grim 
and  silent  and  eternal. 

When  we  reached  the  foot-hills  the  beacon- 
lights  had  faded.  Midnight  blackness  was 
shading  into  grey,  just  touched  with  rose. 


i8 


Xater  %o\>e  ^Letters 


Uowart 
tbe  Stars 


We  began  the  gradual  ascent,  and  at  the  first 
level  place  paused  and  waited,  turning  toward 
the  east. 

It  was  as  if  the  world  were  being  created 
again.  Through  rifts  of  heaven  came  a  ce 
lestial  glory  that  was  neither  the  gold  nor  the 
white  of  sun,  but  iridescent,  as  though  the 
light  were  broken. 

Beyond  us,  in  the  blue  and  purple  mists  of 
dawn,  lay  a  veritable  sea  of  mountains,  their 
white  peaks  stained  with  the  sunrise.  The 
light  trembled  toward  us  and  the  colour  in 
the  valley  melted  into  transparent  turquoise. 
Then  all  at  once  it  became  molten  silver,  and 
we  turned  toward  the  mountain  which  lay 
ahead. 

The  mists  of  the  night  were  rising  and  the 
autumn  colouring  showed  through.  It  was 
like  a  great  opal,  crowned  with  crimson  fire. 
I  knew  the  way  was  rough,  overlaid  with 
jagged  rocks  and  dangerous  pitfalls ;  that 
there  were  thorny  steeps  and  waiting  chasms, 
but  dawn  and  distance  had  hidden  it  all  —  as 
the  light  of  your  love  has  lain  upon  my  life. 

With  each  step  the  path  seemed  to  grow 
steeper.  Tortuous  curves  made  the  trail 


©t"  a  flDusician 


among  the  gaunt  pines  where  the  mountain 
flowers  clung  closely  to  the  rock. 

Here  and  there  a  giant  cedar  was  cleft  from 
head  to  foot  by  a  shaft  of  lightning,  and  a 
hoary  monarch  lay  across  the  narrow  way 
between  two  peaks,  as  though  the  Storm 
King  had  made  a  bridge  for  his  swift  and 
terrible  armies  to  cross. 

Streams  thundered  down  the  mountain  with 
the  fury  of  a  cataract,  clear  as  crystal  and  cold 
as  the  ice  and  snow  which  gave  them  birth. 
At  last  we  reached  a  treeless  waste  —  above 
the  timber-line. 

It  was  noon  when  we  came  to  the  summit. 
The  desert  of  stone  around  us  was  brightened 
by  no  living  thing.  On  the  farther  side  was 
a  precipice  of  immeasurable  depth.  Beyond 
it,  in  solemn  beauty,  rose  black  crags  and 
perpetual  snow. 

High  among  the  rocks,  like  lone  eagle 
eyries,  were  two  tiny  lakes.  One  was  like 
the  plain  which  lay  dimly  in  the  distance  and 
the  other  was  the  colour  of  the  sea  at  sunset. 
In  each  a  mighty  river  rose. 

The  crest  of  the  rock  above  them  was  the 
Great  Divide.  Countless  spires  of  unyielding 


Uowatft 
tbe  Stars 


20 


Xatet  Xove  Xetters  of  a  /Kmsician 


Uowarb 
tbe  Stars 


stone,  yearning  sunward,  made  the  place  a 
vast  cathedral  and  turned  the  helpless  tendrils 
of  our  hearts  toward  the  stars. 

And  then,  to  the  north  of  where  I  stood,  a 
silvery  cloud  floated  away,  disclosing  a  mount 
ain  I  had  not  seen.  The  rocks  had  been  riven 
by  lightning,  or  by  some  awful  Hand,  and  on 
the  inaccessible  crags  where  no  sun  could 
reach  it,  had  been  laid,  in  eternal  snow,  the 
symbol  of  the  Cross. 


21 


LOHENGRIN 

x~^ 


WAOMN 


^ 


g^H5  ^~ 

i 

—  i  U  

j         f*  J. 

i  * 

22 


Gbe  pbilosopber's  Stone 

I  SAW  a  bit  of  crystal  to-day,  resting  upon 
rock  through  which,  like  tenderness  in  a 
hard  nature,  ran  a  thread  of  purest  gold  The 
prismatic  spires  shaded  from  white  to  deepest 
purple,  as  though  a  violet  had  been  caught 
and  held  in  transparent  stone. 

What  fairy  hands  had  laid  the  gold  and 
amethyst  upon  such  foundation,  it  is  not  for 
man  to  know.  Only  after  strenuous  toil  does 
the  Earth  Queen  disclose  a  hint  of  her  splen 
dour.  In  unsuspected  crevices  her  jewels  lie, 
and  upon  the  heights,  in  unyielding  fastness 
and  under  flowing  streams,  she  has  hidden 
her  gold. 

Down  in  the  innermost  caverns  of  the 
world  the  gold  and  gems  are  made.  Gnomes 
and  elves  bring  the  precious  materials  from 
far-off  treasure  chambers,  to  be  transmuted 
into  exquisite  fineness  by  the  witchery  of 
white  fire. 


OLatec  %ove  betters 


Ube  pbf. 

losopber'e 
Stone 


Upon  her  radiant  throne  in  the  vaulted  dark 
ness,  the  Earth  Queen  need  not  sigh  for  the 
colour  of  the  outer  world,  for  magic  flame  and 
fairy  fingers  make  it  all  beneath  her  very  eyes. 

The  yellow  light  of  a  summer  afternoon 
lies  in  the  depths  of  a  topaz,  grassy  plains 
share  their  colour  with  the  emeralds,  and  in 
the  amethysts  are  violets  and  Indian  Summer 
haze. 

June's  roses  know  no  crimson  deeper  than 
that  in  the  wine-cup  of  the  ruby,  and  all  the 
summer  sea  is  hinted  in  turquoise,  sapphire, 
and  pearl.  Sun  and  snow  are  in  the  diamond's 
brilliant  sparkle,  and  the  ever-changing  opal 
holds  sunset,  a  rainbow,  and  "the  light  of  an 
immortal  dawn." 

And  yet  it  is  gold,  not  jewels,  for  which 
the  daily  quest  is  made.  Gold  !  And  what 
can  it  bring  ! 

The  most  precious  things  in  the  world  are 
those  which  cannot  be  bought — the  tender 
touch  of  a  little  child's  fingers,  the  light  in  a 
woman's  eyes,  and  the  love  in  a  woman's 
heart. 

The  knights  of  old  sought  the  Holy  Grail 
with  no  less  persistence  than  we  of  to-day 


<S>t  a  flDusician 


seek  Happiness.  The  wise  alchemists  of  ages 
past,  thinking  a  golden  snare  would  surely 
tempt  her  elusive  feet,  searched  along  the 
highways  of  the  world  for  the  Philosopher's 
Stone  —  a  veritable  finger  of  Midas  to  turn  all 
it  touched  to  gold. 

And  still  the  quest  goes  on,  and  we  who 
have  found  it  can  only  stand  aside  and  marvel 
at  those  who  do  not  see. 

Ah,  it  is  a  strange  thing  —  Love's  little 
fingers  on  the  heart,  making  tenderness  out 
of  bitterness  and  changing  weakness  into 
strength  !  When  once  a  woman's  eyes,  with 
understanding  love,  have  looked  into  the  very 
depths  of  a  man's  soul,  he  need  seek  no 
farther  for  the  Philosopher's  Stone. 

As  if  by  magic,  the  love  of  the  many  comes 
with  the  love  of  the  one.  One  flash  of  the 
love-light  makes  the  whole  world  new,  one 
chord  of  Love's  music  changes  all  sound  to 
song,  and  one  touch  of  Love's  hand  so  glori 
fies  the  earth  that  it  needs  no  other  alchemy 
to  make  it  truly  gold. 


losopber's 
Stone 


Spirit  of  tbe  IRain 

allegretto 


GKIKG 


ICH  LIEBE  DICH 


Sbe  Spirit  of  tfoe 


'"TO-DAY  the  rain  is  beating  against  the 
1  windows.  Sometimes  it  is  a  slow 
monotone,  like  the  responses  of  the  litany, 
and  then  it  changes  to  a  rush  like  the  moving 
of  unnumbered  wings. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Rain  is  a  veritable  bird  of 
passage,  closely  following  the  flocks  of  wild 
geese  in  her  arrival  and  departure.  And  her 
moods  are  as  various  as  your  own. 

When  the  earth  awakes  from  the  long 
sleep,  she  shares  the  delirious  raptures  of 
spring.  There  is  nothing  more  joyous  than 
an  April  shower  —  nothing  more  cheerless 
than  November  rain. 

When  the  blood  of  the  clover  riots  in  the 
veins  of  June,  she  dances  wildly  through  the 
world.  Her  silver  wings  flash  through 
the  mist  in  the  meadow,  the  thirsty  grass 
drinks  deep  of  her  liquid  enchantment,  and 
the  shimmering  coolness  of  her  dusky  hair, 


Allegretto 


3° 


Xater  Xox>e  Xetters 


Cbe  Spirit 
of  tbc 
Ytain 


floating  over  the  fields,  puts  courage  into  the 
faint  heart  of  every  drooping  rose. 

Her  light  feet  twinkle  upon  the  forest  floor 
to  the  castanets  of  drippi.ig  leaves,  she  swings 
with  lyrical  grace  from  side  to  side  of  the 
wood,  and  to  the  brave  little  mother-birds, 
shielding  their  downy  nestlings  from  wind 
and  flood,  she  whispers,  "  Be  not  afraid." 

Fern  and  moss  and  lichen  all  wait  for  her 
coming,  and  the  little  creatures  of  the  woods, 
from  sheltered  nooks,  watch  her  mad  course 
with  wide,  wondering  eyes. 

She  casts  her  crystal  witchery  over  a  weary 
brook  and  it  straightway  sings  again,  forget 
ting  all  its  toilsome  way  through  parched  and 
dusty  plains.  There  is  life  in  her  touch  and 
she  so  fills  the  air  with  magic,  that  it  needs 
but  a  shaft  of  sunset  light  to  lay  a  rainbow  in 
every  field. 

Sometimes  her  departure  is  slow  and  stately, 
but  more  often  there  is  a  sudden  gleam  of 
silver  in  the  shadow  and  lo,  she  is  gone  ! 

To-day,  My  Lady,  I  have  given  her  a 
message  for  you.  Even  as  I  write  she  is 
turning  her  changeful  face  to  the  east,  and  I 
fancy  that  she  will  be  with  you  by  nightfall. 


a  /IDusician 


And  so  when  you  light  the  lamps  at  twi 
light,  dreaming  perhaps  of  him  who  cannot 
come,  soft  finger-tips  will  sound  at  your 
window  pane.  When  you  look  out  into  the 
dark  you  will  see  her  laughing,  tender  eyes, 
and  by  the  grace  of  loving,  you  will  under 
stand  trn  word  that  has  come  to  you  —  on  the 
wings  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Rain. 


ttbe  Spirit 
of  tbe 
•Rain 


flDessase  of  <3re$ 

andante  Sppassfcmata 


DU  BIST  WIE  EINE  BLUMK 


SCHUMANH 


Du 


WF 


. 


Mu  -  me,         So     Tioia       und  schon    unO.    rein 
+  ** 


&  ftL   •f^'€'iiTi"yinfTf' 
fow  !» i*  Sg  ^^ 


ss 


34 


35 


of 


ALL  day  yesterday  the  chill  October  rain 
dripped  steadily.  The  red  and  yellow 
leaves  which  lay  upon  the  ground  were  sod 
den  and  dull,  their  brilliant  colouring  changed 
to  a  sober  hue. 

But  my  sunshine  came  from  within,  for  it 
was  the  day  for  a  letter  from  you.  When 
it  did  not  come,  the  inner  light  suddenly 
vanished  and  the  world  seemed  cold  and 
despairing. 

It  was  not  a  concert  day  and  so  I  tried  to 
work.  But  I  made  false  notes  —  my  violin 
reflected  my  own  mood  —  and  I  gave  it  up. 
Composition  was  no  better.  I  could  see  that 
what  I  was  doing  was  not  art,  but  something 
utterly  unworthy  of  the  name,  and  this,  too, 
I  put  aside. 

I  hardly  know  how  the  day  passed,  but  at 
last  the  sunless  afternoon  shaded  into  night. 
Outside  the  rain  beat  a  solemn  requiem  and 


Ilntuintc 

Bppaesione 

ata 


Xater  %ove  Xetters 


ICbe  flDcae 
sage  of 


the  wind  sounded  through  the  shivering 
branches  like  a  dirge. 

Then  there  was  a  shimmer  of  grey  wings 
in  the  dark,  a  soft  rush  that  was  not  wind, 
and  a  gentle  tap  at  the  window  that  was  not 
rain.  I  opened  it,  and  our  faithful  messenger, 
with  a  little  coo  of  recognition,  flew  straight 
to  my  hands. 

It  was  a  fit  message,  Heart  of  Mine,  to 
come  by  carrier  pigeon.  If  I  could  not  have 
it  from  your  own  lips,  I  should  choose  to 
have  it  by  the  grace  of  this  wet-winged 
wanderer,  who  brought  it  through  dark  skies 
and  swirling  rain  to  make  my  autumn  night  a 
midsummer  noon. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  reach  out  across 
the  leagues  that  lie  between  us  and  draw  you 
close  to  my  heart.  For  the  words  will  not 
come.  When  the  soul  is  filled  with  love  un 
speakable,  there  is  no  language  save  the  mute 
touch  of  lips  and  hands. 

It  was  long  before  the  full  realisation  of  it 
came  to  me  —  that  the  exquisite  miracle  of 
your  womanhood  had  begun  to  slowly  unfold. 
God  could  not  have  chosen  a  nobler  temple 
than  this,  for  every  fibre  of  your  nature  is 


a  Musician 


37 


inwoven  with  truth,  and  ever  have  I  knelt  in    tbt 
worship  before    your   stainless  radiance   of 
soul. 

You  were  divinely  near  before,  but  you  are 
divinely  holy  now.  The  old,  immortal  joy 
beat  high  in  my  veins  and  all  at  once  there 
came  a  strange  sense  of  kinship  with  the 
world. 

I  wonder  if  I  have  been  selfish  and  held 
myself  aloof — if  in  my  happiness  I  have 
passed  my  fellows  by  !  I  know  you  have  not 
done  so,  for  scarcely  a  day  passes  but  some 
disheartened  one  comes  to  you  for  strength 
and  consolation. 

As  in  a  sudden  flash  of  inward  light,  I  saw 
that  the  whole  world  was  truly  one.  No 
mountains  divide  us,  no  seas  set  apart  ;  there 
is  no  barrier  in  all  nature  except  the  lines 
weak  human  hands  have  drawn.  We  are 
helpless  without  each  other — we  cannot  suf 
fer  or  enjoy  alone. 

And  so  it  seemed  as  if  all  living  things  must 
share  this  happiness  of  ours,  as  if  all  that  is 
noble  in  the  world  must  help  me  grow  strong 
and  fine,  for  your  sake  and — yes,  I  must  write 
it,  My  Lady — for  the  sake  of  the  holy  thing 


OLater  OLove  ^Letters 


Ubc 
gage  of 


TOUngs 


that  sleeps  beneath  your  heart — our  little 
child. 

The  night  was  deepening  into  dawn.  The 
rain  had  ceased  and  I  opened  the  window 
again.  With  an  upward  sweep  of  his  restless 
wings,  our  messenger  was  gone  —  perchance 
to  seek  you,  or  to  find  in  wood  and  field  that 
freedom  which  he  has  so  fully  earned. 

I  had  a  strange  longing  to  follow  him.  The 
soul  and  heart  have  wings,  but  not  our  clay. 
I  went  softly  out  of  the  house  and  down  the 
road,  toward  the  sea,  the  sun,  and  you. 

The  air  was  sweet  with  the  odour  of  the 
drenched  October  leaves.  High  in  the  maple 
above  me  swung  a  little  last  year's  nest,  its 
tenants  gone  to  the  sunny  South  land  and  its 
helpless  children  grown. 

Oh,  why  do  we  speak  of  the  sadness  of 
autumn  !  Must  we  be  ever  so  impatient  that 
we  cannot  wait  for  spring  ?  For  every  flower 
that  dies  there  must  rise  a  fresher  beauty  ;  for 
every  desolate  December  there  must  come  a 
gladsome  May. 

The  two  or  three  timid  stars  that  had 
stepped  from  behind  the  cloud  in  the  east 
had  already  faltered  and  fled.  In  the  west 


<S>f  a  /iDusictan 


39 


were  tiny  points  of  light  like  shining  pearl. 
There  was  a  vast  tremble  and  all  at  once  the 
clouds  were  riven. 

A  single  shaft  of  molten  gold  leaped  athwart 
the  dark  dome,  and  the  awakened  heaven  was 
suffused  with  colour — amethyst,  topaz,  sap 
phire,  and  opal  —  where  the  grey  marble  of 
night  had  broken  and  disclosed  the  splendid 
jewels  of  dawn. 


Ubc  flbee* 

sage  of 

(Breg 

ICUngs 


Country  of  tbe  Ibeart 

Ifferamente 


FANTASIA  APPASSIONATA    Op. 


VlEUXTEMFS 


42 


Gbe  Country  of  tbe  Ibeart 

THERE  is  a  Country  of  the  Heart,  My  Lady, 
where  all  the  joy  and  pain  of  the  world 
are  found.  In  other  hearts  we  may  gather  as 
we  will,  for  at  the  touch  the  tenderest  bioom 
is  offered,  but  in  our  own  we  can  only  strive 
with  the  weeds  and  thorns  and  marvel  at 
such  beauty  as  may  be. 

In  the  southern  part  of  the  Country  stands 
the  House  of  Forgiveness.  There  is  only  one 
way  to  enter — through  the  Door  of  Under 
standing — and  he  who  would  walk  therein 
must  first  touch  his  lips  to  the  Water  of 
Forgetfulness. 

Upon  a  sunless  steep  lies  the  terrible  Wood 
of  Renunciation.  Willow  and  cypress  shade 
the  dark  solitudes,  and  there  is  no  softness  of 
growing  things  upon  the  rough  soil.  Only 
the  asphodel  flowers  there,  in  uneven  clusters, 
where  the  way  is  wet  with  tears. 

But  on  the  grassy  slopes  above  are  the 


44 


Xater  Xove  Xetters 


oftbe 


Heartsease  of  Past  Joy  and  the  Violets  of 
Consolation.  These  never  fail  the  footsore 
traveller,  for  they  are  watched  by  the  Angel 
of  Memory. 

Here,  too,  are  the  Precious  Herbs  which 
bring  comfort  —  the  Marjoram  of  Belief,  the 
Thyme  of  Trust  and  the  Spikenard  of  Resig 
nation. 

The  Hill  of  Regret  is  covered  with  rue,  and 
the  path  to  the  summit  is  much  worn.  For 
upon  the  heights  is  the  Temple  of  Know 
ledge,  with  the  golden  Ivy  of  Silence  almost 
hiding  its  walls. 

Along  the  Way  of  Sorrow  there  is  healing 
in  store,  could  the  heart-broken  only  see  it 
through  the  blinding  mist.  Here  are  the 
Rosemary  of  Remembrance,  the  Lavender  of 
New  Tenderness,  and  a  tiny  flower  which 
some  call  Sympathy  and  some  the  Grace  of 
Giving. 

But  no  one  can  leave  the  Way  of  Sorrow 
alone.  He  must  take  into  his  hands  the 
Lavender,  hiding  the  Rosemary  in  his  own 
soul,  and,  with  the  Grace  of  Giving,  try  to  lead 
a  fellow-traveller  into  the  Field  of  Content.  In 
this  way  only  shall  he  find  the  Path  of  Peace. 


a  /iDusictan 


45 


There  is  one  flower  which  grows  in  the 
Country  of  the  Heart,  which  many  never  find 
at  all.  It  is  a  slender,  delicate  anemone,  which 
fades  when  the  north  wind  blows  and  does 
not  come  up  again  until  spring.  This  is  the 
Flower  of  Charity.  Some  call  it  Unrewarded 
Kindness. 

Along  the  Way  of  the  Water  of  Life  grows 
the  Lily  of  Faith.  Sometimes  there  is  a  vary 
ing  rainbow  upon  it,  like  the  reflection  from 
a  stained-glass  window,  but  oftener  only  the 
white  light  of  the  sun.  The  Lily  with  the 
colour  upon  it  is  frail  and  delicate,  but  the  one 
which  is  planted  in  the  white  radiance  blooms 
steadily,  even  in  cold  and  thorny  soil. 

In  the  most  beautiful  place  in  the  Country 
of  the  Heart,  the  Roses  of  Love  are  in  bloom. 
There  are  red  ones,  for  the  love  of  the  sweet 
heart,  pink  for  friends,  gold  for  the  love  of  a 
little  child,  and  white  for  the  dead. 

The  air  is  always  filled  with  fragrance 
when  the  Roses  of  Love  are  in  blossom,  and 
even  the  Wood  of  Renunciation  is  sweetened 
by  the  far-off  bloom.  White  roses  brighten 
the  Way  of  Sorrow  and  are  set  like  stars 
among  the  rue  on  the  Hill  of  Regret.  The 


tlbe 
Country 
of  tbe 
Heart 


3Later  Xov>e  ^Letters  of  a  /IDusician 


TTbe 

Country 
of  the 
fjcart 


pink  roses  fade  easily  and  even  the  red  ones 
wither.  Sometimes  the  golden  roses  change 
to  white,  but  the  white  ones  are  never  lost. 

In  the  Country  of  Our  Heart,  My  Lady  — 
for  you  and  I  are  so  truly  one  that  we  have 
but  a  single  kingdom  between  us  —  the  red 
roses  are  more  beautiful  than  ever.  There 
are  a  few  pink  ones  and  one  or  two  of  the 
white.  But  the  treasure  of  our  lives  is  this  — 
the  bud  which  is  breaking  through  the  green 
sheath,  disclosing  a  colour  we  have  never 
known. 

May  God  keep  our  Golden  Rose  in  bloom  ! 


after  tbe  Storm 

BnOantino 


47 


PASTORAL  SYMPHONY 

Allegro       ,1^— ^     I 


BBKTHOVRM 


^ 


48 


49 


Hf ter  tfoe  Storm 

\7ESTERDAY  a  wild  wind  came  from  the 
1  north  and  east  and  so  I  went  down  to 
the  sea.  Out  to  the  dark  horizon  line  the 
water  was  a  tempestuous  wilderness  of  grey 
foam.  The  steady  lines  of  surf  that  break  in 
melody  upon  the  sand  were  torn  by  conflicting 
currents  and  the  shrieking  wind. 

Far  to  the  north  were  clouds  01  midnight 
blackness,  but  in  the  southern  sky  were 
feathery  masses  of  rose  and  gold.  The  light 
shone  upon  the  flood  beneath  and  touched 
the  foaming  waves  with  a  tender  glow. 
From  north  to  south  in  perfect  arch  stretched 
a  double  rainbow,  as  if  in  assurance  of  the 
promise  made  of  old, — "  And  there  shall  be 
no  more  sea." 

All  night  the  wind  and  water  raged,  but  at 
dawn  the  storm  ceased.  At  sunset  to-night 
I  went  down  again. 

There  was  no  sign  of  stress  or  conflict  on 


Bn&antino 


Xater  OLove  Xetters 


Bftet  tbe 
Storm 


the  far,  blue  reaches  of  the  deep  ;  no  hint  of 
wind  or  storm.  Only  at  the  shore-line  where 
the  surf  began  to  break  was  any  change  to  be 
seen. 

With  slow  undulation,  each  wave  gathered 
power.  The  long  afternoon  light  shone  into 
depths  of  translucent  green.  With  splendid 
strength  the  water  rose,  curling  slightly  and 
filling  the  air  with  shining  spray,  then  sud 
denly  booming  like  distant  thunder  and  crash 
ing  heavily  upon  itself. 

There  was  a  report  like  cannon  when  a 
wave  struck  the  water.  Little  puffs  of  foam 
were  blown  across  the  sand  as  the  wind 
drifts  the  snow. 

Three  times  a  single  wave  gathered  and 
broke  before  it  reached  the  shore. 

I  could  watch  the  sea  forever — clothed  in 
the  majesty  of  its  endless  years.  It  is  never 
twice  the  same,  and  yet  the  mysterious  tide  is 
constant  in  its  ebb  and  flow. 

The  sun  went  down,  leaving  a  last  splen 
dour  on  the  drifted  clouds  in  the  south-east. 
This,  too,  faded  away  and  the  yacht  in  the 
harbour  rose  and  fell  sleepily  with  the  unrest 
ing  waves. 


©t'  a  flDusician 


A  lamp  was  swung  at  the  masthead.  The 
signal  light  on  shore  threw  out  its  beams  afar. 
And  inland,  faintly  at  first  and  then  more 
brightly,  shone  the  North  Star. 

Changeless,  fixed,  and  eternal,  while  the 
unending  march  of  the  universe  goes  on  with 
immeasurable  sweep,  that  single  star  gleams 
on  land  and  sea.  It  is  a  guide  tr  the  faltering 
feet  of  the  lost  on  earth  and  a  compass  for  the 
struggling  ones  ' '  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in 
ships." 

I  have  often  thought  it  should  be  the  love- 
star,  rather  than  the  one  which  poets  of  all 
ages  have  celebrated  in  song  and  story,  for  is 
love  less  true  than  the  polar  star  ?  The  clouds 
may  hide  it  for  a  little  time,  but  we  have  only 
to  wait  and  presently  it  shines  again. 

Star  of  my  Life,  the  shadows  fall  in  vain. 
Love  gives  a  finer  sight  and  not  even  the  dark 
ness  of  death  could  hide  your  face  from  me. 

The  angry  waves  of  the  world  may  surge 
round  me  as  they  will.  Your  little  hands  are 
on  the  wheel  of  my  uncertain  craft  and  I 
know  they  will  guide  me  safely  to  the  shore, 
where  the  harbour  lights  of  love  are  gleaming 
— to  lead  your  captain  home. 


Hf  tec  tbe 
Storm 


Some 

pensieroso 


53 


SONATA  APPASSIONATA    Op.  57  BBBTHOVBM 


--  r 


54 


55 


Some  Das 

WORDS  cannot  tell  you,  My  Heart,  how 
much  I  want  to  be  with  you  now. 
In  reality  every  day  that  passes  brings  you 
nearer  to  me,  and  yet  it  seems  as  though  it 
had  been  a  year. 

But  some  day  I  shall  go  to  you  again.  I 
shall  hold  your  hands  in  mine  and  see  the 
tenderness  in  the  clear  depths  of  your  dear 
eyes.  Some  night  I  shall  go  back  to  our  little 
home  and  at  the  summit  of  the  hill  see  your 
signal-fire, — the  tiny  candle  which  you  set  in 
the  window  at  dusk  to  guide  me  from  afar. 

That  beacon-light  has  never  failed  in  all  the 
five  years  we  have  walked  together.  No 
matter  how  discouraged  or  despondent  I  have 
been,  when  I  saw  the  little  star  glimmering 
faintly  in  the  dark,  I  have  taken  heart  again. 
For  fresh  courage  must  ever  dawn  in  a  man's 
soul  when  a  woman's  faith  keeps  the  love- 
light  burning  upon  the  altar  of  his  home. 


pensferoao 


Xater  Xove  ^Letters 


Some  2>«8 


"Some  Day  !"  Ah,  all  the  waiting  ones  of 
earth  have  taken  solace  from  the  sound. 
Some  day  wet  eyes  shall  shine,  but  not  with 
tears,  and  quivering  lips  shall  smile  again. 
Some  day  the  deep  lines  shall  be  smoothed 
from  every  careworn  face,  and  the  knotted, 
roughened  hands  made  soft  once  more. 
Thorns  that  lie  deep  in  tender  hearts  shall  be 
drawn  away  and  precious  herbs  shall  bring 
their  healing  sweetness  to  the  wound. 

Some  day  each  hungry  soul  shall  find  its 
mate  and  they  two  shall  comfort  one  another 
with  the  gentle  ministry  of  love.  The  lost 
violets  shall  come  again  and  make  the  aisles 
of  springtime  scented  purple  ways.  Ice 
bound  streams  shall  chant  the  summer  song 
and  the  sleeping  forests  awake  to  life  once 
more. 

For  this  is  the  eternal  law.  For  every  hour 
of  suffering  we  are  paid  with  abundant  joy  ; 
for  every  surge  of  our  helpless,  finite  passion 
there  is  a  returning  flow.  For  every  swelling 
of  the  heart  comes  a  moment  of  rest ;  for 
every  hour  of  the  night  there  is  one  of  sun. 

And  all  who  weep  may  dry  their  tears  with 
this,  for  as  truly  as  morning  dawns  the 


©f  a  /IDusfcfan 


57 


light  shall  come.  And  even  in  our  sorrow 
we  are  not  alone. 

Blind  feet  have  trod  thy  way  before — the 
same  thorns  that  stab  thy  heart  are  keen  in 
other  breasts.  Wilt  thou  repine  beneath  thy 
burden,  or  bravely  seek  to  lighten  the  fardels 
of  those  who  walk  with  thee  ? 

Some  one  who  is  dear  to  thee  hath  entered 
upon  the  long  sleep,  but  art  thou  alone  in 
this  ?  A  day  like  thine  must  come  to  all. 
Some  one  upon  whom  thy  soul  leaned  is 
lost,  but  art  thou  alone?  The  shimmering 
veil  of  estrangement  hangs  ever  between 
human  hearts. 

Thou  hast  only  to  wait,  and  that  which  is 
truly  thine  own  shall  come  back  to  thee  un 
changed,  and  sweeter  for  the  long  absence. 
And  in  the  grave  hast  thou  placed  thine  all  ? 
Hath  not  Mnemosyne  left  thee  sweet  days 
and  tender  thoughts  ?  Unless  thou  hast  this 
consolation,  thou  hast  suffered  no  loss. 

Only  wait  a  little  time  and  what  was  dis 
appointment  shall  be  seen  as  blessing.  By 
Some  Day's  magic  touch,  loss  shall  become 
gain.  Thy  sorrow  shall  be  soothed  to  a  gen 
tle  regret  and  thy  grief  shade  into  a  tender 


Some  Dag 


Xater  Xove  Xetters  of  a  flDustdan 


memory.  And  thou  shalt  see  that  thou  hast 
not  buried  all  the  sweetness  of  life  in  the  dark 
hollows  of  thy  grave,  but  only  the  dead  leaves 
of  thy  comrade's  soul. 

Look  up  to  the  stars  behind  the  dark,  for  in 
the  Stygian  shadow  they  shine  for  such  as 
thee.  Thou  hast  only  to  wait,  for  light  and 
joy  shall  surely  come,  on  the  slow  wings  of 
some  dear  day. 


PART  TWO 


59 


Indian  Summer 


REVERIE  TSCHAIKOWSKY 

Andante  Capriceioso  ^""wi-* 


UnMan  Summer 

INTO  the  chill  autumn  day  has  come  the 
breath  of  summer.  The  bare  maple 
branches  stand  out  against  a  sky  of  turquoise 
and  silver,  with  here  and  there  a  single  leaf 
forgotten  by  the  frost. 

The  russet  oaks  have  given  up  their  splen 
dour  and  with  every  passing  breeze  a  fright 
ened  company  of  leaves  scurries  down  the 
road.  Suddenly  torn  from  the  lofty  height 
where  they  have  swung  all  summer  long, 
they  seemingly  cannot  understand  the  change. 

To  be  trampled  by  careless  feet,  when  they 
once  looked  down  upon  the  earth  in  supreme 
unconcern — alas,  it  is  the  way  of  the  world  ! 
To  lie  in  the  dust  while  the  slow  chemistry 
of  Nature  makes  them  one  with  the  soil — this, 
too,  is  the  way  of  all  living  things.  To  go 
back  to  the  elements  from  whence  they  came, 
to  be  re-created  in  beautiful  and  ever-chang 
ing  form — is  this  what  we  call  death?  Let 
us  say,  rather,  it  is  immortality. 


64 


Xater  OLove  betters 


flnMan 
Summer 


All  the  brilliant  beauty  of  the  landscape  is 
blending  into  sober  grey,  but  there  are  some 
colours  upon  the  palette  which  as  yet  the  art 
ist  has  not  touched.  Along  the  road  the  dog 
wood  trees  flaunt  their  splendid  crimson  fruit, 
and  on  the  hill  the  mountain  ash,  in  faded 
green,  has  donned  its  autumn  jewels  of  burnt 
orange  and  gold. 

The  brown  milkweed  pods  have  opened, 
disclosing  silvery  down  of  silken  softness. 
Dandelion  wraiths  and  wandering  thistle  souls 
are  still  to  be  seen  floating  on  the  transparent 
sea  of  air.  Tangled  vines  on  the  roadway 
are  inextricably  interwoven,  their  fairy  fila 
ments  closely  twined  as  if  in  mutual  sorrow. 

The  flower-burnt  slopes  where  once  the 
goldenrod  made  glorious  flame  are  dull  and 
ashen  now.  The  brown  ray  petals  of  the 
dead  asters  have  closed  tenderly  around  the 
hearts  that  once  were  gold,  as  if  loath  to  say 
farewell. 

All  the  tiny  spinners  are  asleep — who  knows 
where  !  Perchance  in  the  dark  labyrinths 
which  wind  their  little  way  through  the  soft 
soil,  or  hidden  under  the  dead  leaves,  trusting  in 
the  gracious  forbearance  of  the  winter,  winds. 


©f  a  /Musician 


A  pair  of  chattering  squirrels  have  made  a 
holiday  among  the  fallen  leaves,  apparently  in 
search  of  nuts  and  acorns  to  add  to  their  al 
ready  bounteous  store.  It  has  been  perpetual 
hide-and-seek  —  the  sudden  flash  of  bright 
eyes  in  unsuspected  quarters,  the  daring  flaunt 
of  a  bushy  tail,  and  the  mad  scamper  under 
leaves,  through  branches,  and  down  the  hollow 
tree  to  the  hidden  nest. 

On  the  harp  strings  of  the  marsh  grass,  the 
North  Wind,  tempered  to  a  summer  softness 
now,  has  attempted  the  spell  and  threnody  of 
June.  But  the  instrument  is  out  of  tune,  and 
all  life  has  fled  from  the  worn  strings.  The 
hand  of  winter  has  not  the  touch,  and  the 
melody  is  gone. 

When  the  broad  sheet  of  water  breaks  into 
lilied  flood  once  more,  when  the  creamy  lotus 
blooms  and  the  purple  flags  stand  straight 
amid  the  green,  the  old  song  of  the  marshes 
will  sound  through  the  tremulous  twilight 
stillness. 

It  is  only  for  a  day  or  two,  this  magical  violet 
haze  and  summer  sweetness.  Then  the  air  will 
grow  steadily  colder  with  hints  of  impending 
snow.  And  until  March,  we  must  be  apart  ! 


Utrtfan 
Summer 


66 


Xater  OLove  Xetters  ot  a  /ffimsictan 


ITnMan 
Summer 


Ah,  Sweetheart  mine,  the  days  are  long 
indeed  !  It  is  always  winter  when  I  am  away 
from  you,  but  it  is  graciously  softened  to  an 
Indian  Summer  like  this,  by  the  memory  of 
your  tenderness  and  the  dream  of  your  wait 
ing  love. 


Ebe  Baugbter  of  tbe  Stream 

fflurmurando 


SONG  OF  THE  RHEIN  DAUGHTERS 
Das  Rheingold 


WAGNBK 


68 


,    Ebe  Bauobter  of  tbe  Stream 


TO-DAY,  while  I  was  walking  in  the 
woods,  I  found  a  tiny  stream  coming 
unexpectedly  from  beneath  an  overhanging 
bank.  The  grass  was  grey  and  dead,  but  the 
little  river  sang  and  rippled  cheerily,  as  though 
it  were  June  again. 

I  followed  it  on  its  woodland  journey. 
Close  to  its  course  were  the  sleeping  butter 
cups  and  the  phlox,  the  dog-tooth  violets 
and  withered  ferns.  A  little  farther  back 
were  broken  mandrakes  and  dead  rue. 

The  autumn  leaves  had  fallen  there  and 
after  floating  for  a  little  space  had  dropped 
into  its  silent  depths.  I  could  see  the  brown 
ones,  through  the  crystal  clearness  of  the 
water,  making  the  deep  colouring  of  your 
eyes.  Here  and  there  was  a  crimson  one  like 
your  lips,  and  where  the  yellow  leaves  had 
covered  the  mossy  bed  there  was  a  veritable 
Rheingold,  with  the  melody  of  the  Rhine 


flDurmur* 
an&o 


Xater  %ove  ^Letters 


Ube 

Baugbter 
of  the 

Stream 


Daughters  sounding  ever  through  the  murmur 
of  the  stream. 

There  is  a  fascination  about  moving  water 
that  still  pools  never  know.  To  look  into 
transparent  crystal  and  see  the  pearly  peb 
bles  lying  beneath,  or  cool  depths  of  moss 
where  the  glancing  sun  lights  up  the  sha 
dow  and  touches  the  delicate  points  with 
emerald  and  silver  —  this  is  to  know  the 
woodland  beauty  and  to  feel  the  siren  spell 
that  draws  the  heart  to  the  woods  and  fields. 

Lost  in  a  dream  of  the  vanished  glory,  the 
shining  waters  rippled  on  their  way.  All 
summer,  fairy  craft  of  leaf  and  petal  had  set 
sail  for  ports  among  the  meadow-sweet. 
Thrush  and  robin  had  dipped  glistening  wings 
into  the  soft  coolness,  and  the  ever-restless, 
circling  swallows  had  hovered  for  a  moment 
to  listen  to  the  singing  stream. 

Vain  little  creatures  of  the  forest  had  chat 
tered  to  each  other,  watching  their  reflection 
meanwhile  in  the  dimpling  mirror.  Willows 
hung  their  thirsty  branches  into  the  shallows 
along  the  shore,  as  the  desert  spaces  of  the 
heart  are  comforted  by  the  Water  of  Life. 

Rocks   began  to  appear  along  the  bank. 


a  /iDusicfan 


Sometimes,  with  infinite  patience,  the  water 
had  worn  a  way  upon  the  grey  stone.  The 
music  trembled  into  deeper  harmony,  yet  it 
was  sweet  and  tender  still. 

At  last  I  heard  a  distant  melody  —  theme 
and  chord  and  overtone  were  blended  into  a 
wordless  song.  I  walked  somewhat  faster 
and  discovered  a  tiny  waterfall  where  the 
little  river  turned  to  leave  the  woods  and 
wander  across  the  open  fields. 

This  Daughter  of  the  Stream  was  half  hid 
den  in  a  veil  of  shimmering  mist.  The  green, 
translucent  water  lay  against  the  mossy  rocks 
with  caressing  softness,  and  through  the  air 
sounded  the  mad,  half-mocking  laughter,  as 
of  a  little  changeling  child. 

The  slanting  sun  shone  into  the  cool  depths 
and  illumined  unsuspected  treasure  of  jasper 
and  onyx.  In  some  lights  the  silvered  spray 
was  like  a  moonstone,  with  blue  and  violet 
glinting  through. 

All  too  soon  Winter  would  claim  her  jewels 
and  change  her  veil  to  frosty  lace.  Ivory  and 
chalcedony  would  hide  the  rocks,  and  the 
treasure  in  the  misty  depths  would  turn  to 
grey.  Glittering  silences  of  ice  would  drown 


JDaugbter 
of  tbe 
Stream 


72  3Later  %ov>e  betters  of  a  flDusician 


her  mad  music,  and  her  riotous  laughter  would 
Daughter    be  hushed  as  if  in  sleep. 

of  tbe 

stream  And  yet  the  little  Daughter  of  the  Stream 
sang  on.  The  love-sweet  melody  made  a 
rhythm  to  my  step  as  I  slowly  walked  away. 
It  was  lowered  to  a  lullaby  and  then  to  a 
distant  croon,  as  though  a  child  had  closed  its 
eyes  and  the  twilight  song  had  trembled  to  a 
whisper  and  a  prayer. 

And  then  a  vision  of  the  future  filled  my 
soul  and  for  the  moment  my  heart  stood 
still.  Perhaps  some  day,  at  the  sound  of  my 
step,  you  would  not  cease  your  singing,  for 
fear 

I  cannot  write  it,  Sweetheart,  but  you 
know. 


of  passage 

allegro  IDlvace 


73 


IF  I  WERE  A  BIRD 


HENSHLT 


/I  QS  tft  ff»*"aag>  v*. 

—t-.^.         M^f 

»»     -f-i 

iT'"n   El""1 

•r- 

r^l 

r 

feiL£  1 

1*" 

-t»  ' 

t~ 

74 


75 


of  passage 


'"pHERE  are  few  birds  left,  aside  from  the 
1  sparrows.  For  many  a  week  the  tide 
of  travel  has  been  southward  —  I  have  not 
seen  one  journeying  toward  the  north. 

Long  ago  the  orioles  cleft  their  golden  path 
through  summer  clouds.  Thrush  and  robin 
have  gone  to  make  music  upon  the  upland 
ways  of  southern  streams.  The  meadow- 
lark  will  rest  in  strange  fields  and  repeat  his 
plaintive  minor  cadence,  which  has  in  its  in 
most  depths  the  sound  of  tears. 

The  bluebird's  wings  will  flash  against  the 
silver  noonday,  the  bobolink  will  chant  his 
mellow  notes  upon  the  far-off  plains,  and 
blackbirds  and  swallows  will  hover  over  dis 
tant  waterways  and  stretch  silhouettes  of 
flight  upon  the  sunset  sky. 

A  bird  is  joy  incarnate.  The  red  wine  of 
life  runs  in  exultant  course  through  every  vein 
and  there  is  gladness  in  every  quiver  of  his 
ecstatic  wings. 


Bllegro 
Vivace 


76 


Xater  SLove  Xetters 


of  Even  after  dusk  some  little  voice  is  to  be 
heard.  Drowsy,  half-whispered  chirps  pene 
trate  the  twilight  stillness,  and  in  the  night 
soft  wing-beats  and  hushed  flutterings  foretell 
the  rapturous  freedom  at  dawn. 

In  the  unspeakable  melody  of  a  bird's  song 
is  all  the  beauty  of  the  world — love  and  hope 
and  trust.  He  knows  naught  of  doubt,  de 
spair,  or  disbelief.  His  bright-eyed  sweet 
heart  is  always  true. 

All  the  pent-up  sweetness  of  the  summer  is 
hidden  in  that  little  throat  —  the  rush  of  water 
and  the  drip  of  rain,  the  scent  of  shorn  fields 
and  the  hum  of  bees  through  the  clover  ;  the 
soft  stir  of  shining  leaves  and  the  luminous, 
fragrant  nights. 

All  is  silent  now.  Through  the  wintry 
wastes  the  North  Wind  will  rnoan  with  the 
rhythm  of  a  dirge,  and  no  soft  chirp  will 
sound  in  the  frosty  silences  of  the  night. 

The  wild  ducks  have  gone.  Flocks  of 
pigeons  have  winged  a  white  way  toward 
the  south.  This  morning,  at  dawn,  I  heard 
the  hoarse  cry  of  wild  geese,  sounding  in  re 
verberant  echoes  over  the  marshes. 

They  are  always  the  last  to  go  and  the  first 


a  flDusician 


to  return.  Like  the  sea-gulls,  they  exult  in 
the  first  cold.  I  have  seen  them  swooping  to 
the  earth,  dipping  their  wings  into  the  icy 
water  of  the  marshes,  as  if  to  cool  the  fever 
of  flight  which  leads  them  on. 

Ah,  what  is  it  that  takes  them  all  away  ! 
Before  there  is  a  change  of  colour  on  the  ma 
ples  some  of  the  wiser  ones  have  fled.  The 
blackbirds  and  swallows  stay  into  the  autumn, 
but  in  a  little  while  they,  too,  are  gone. 

Over  southern  hills  must  come  the  winding 
notes  of  some  hunter's  horn,  with  the  enchant 
ment  of  the  Pied  Piper  sounding  through  its 
mellow  clearness.  The  feathered  folk  listen, 
with  their  heads  turned  one  side,  and  then 
there  is  a  mysterious  departure.  With  silent, 
steady  wing  they  pursue  their  long  journey. 
There  is  neither  hesitation  nor  pause. 

But  once  more  the  bugle  notes  will  break 
on  the  still  air,  this  time  from  the  north,  and 
all  the  merry  company  will  troop  back  again. 
The  bluebird's  colour  will  gleam  amid  the 
drifted  white  of  springtime  bloom,  and  the 
robin's  cheery  voice  will  blend  with  the  April 
rain. 

Again  the  wild  geese  will  be  pencilled  in 


3Bir6s  of 

passage 


Xater  Xox>e  Xetters  of  a  /IDusician 


passage 


unvarying  line  upon  the  distant  sky  and  their 
strident  notes  will  sound  over  the  marsh 
streams. 

But  when  the  first  flock  starts  for  the 
north,  I  shall  be  by  your  side  again.  Ah, 
Sweetheart !  You  are  my  South-land  and  my 
summer  and  all  the  beauty  in  my  world. 


Ibouse  of  Breams 

Xargo 


79 


A  DREAM 


BARTLKTT 


J-  4  -^  J- 


5^ 


B 


I    *    *    * 


80 


8i 


UPON  the  misty  threshold  of  unknown 
lands,  there  lies  the  Garden  of  Sleep. 

Like  the  violet  haze  of  Indian  Summer  a 
shadowy  stillness  hovers  over  it.  Soft  grass 
has  covered  every  pathway,  that  the  dreamer's 
feet  may  make  no  sound. 

Within  the  mystic  Garden  we  may  wander 
as  we  will.  Art  thou  distressed  ?  A  slow 
stream  winds  its  gentle  way  through  the  leafy 
silences,  its  music  hushed  to  a  drowsy  flow. 
Drink  deep,  ye  troubled  ones  who  come  at 
last  to  its  shore,  for  it  is  the  Water  of  Forget- 
fulness. 

Art  thou  weary  ?  On  the  surface  of  the 
Water  there  is  a  fairy  fleet  at  anchor  for  such 
as  thee.  With  tremulous  hands  we  may 
gather  as  we  will.  They  are  dripping  and 
sweet,  with  light  imprisoned  in  their  chalices 
of  gold,  and  the  careworn  face  may  hide  in 
their  fragrant  depths  —  for  these  are  the 
Lilies  of  Rest. 


82 


Xater  %ove  ^Letters 


•Cbetwusc 
of  Streams 


Art  thou  in  doubt  ?  Then  let  thy  straining 
eyes  look  up  to  the  Star  of  Faith.  Art  thou 
disheartened  ?  The  light  of  new  courage 
shall  shine  upon  thee  there.  Art  thou  sorrow 
ful?  Put  by  thy  rue  and  gather  the  Life 
Everlasting. 

Or  art  thou  grieved  ?  Then  in  the  Garden 
there  is  comfort  and  healing  balm.  Lavender, 
spikenard,  rosemary — all  these  shall  send 
their  solace  straight  to  thy  tortured  heart.  The 
things  that  are  thine  own  are  for  a  little  time 
estranged  but  never  lost.  Hands  that  once 
clung  to  thine  await  thee  with  the  tender 
touch  of  old,  for  the  Asphodel  of  Death  grows 
not  in  the  Garden  of  Sleep  —  only  the  unfad 
ing  Amaranth  of  Immortality. 

Near  the  Lilies  of  Rest  there  stands  Our 
Lady  of  the  Garden.  Over  the  gleam  of  her 
poppy-crowned  hair  comes  the  light  of  the 
City  far  beyond. 

The  marble  minarets  and  towers  gleam 
like  pearl  in  the  sun,  and  in  the  stillness  sounds 
the  chime  of  the  slumber  bells.  There  is  no 
night  there  save  the  crimson  sunset,  no  storm 
save  the  silver  weaving  of  the  rain  through 
the  blue  dusk,  and  the  dream-bees  hum 


©t  a  flDustctan 


through  the  white  silences  like  the  melody  of 
wind  through  the  grain. 

The  mellow  gold  streams  on  the  blue  water 
that  ripples  with  the  rhythm  of  a  lullaby  and 
the  soft  surge  of  it  brings  peace.  In  the  City 
of  Visions  there  is  no  heartache,  and  the 
restless  feet  that  wander  there  have  forgotten 
all  their  toil. 

Only  once  in  the  long  day  is  the  mystical 
gate  unbarred,  when  far  and  faintly  in  the 
west  the  signal  light  is  set  —  the  misty,  opal 
gleam  of  the  sunset  star. 

We  pass  through  the  Garden  of  Sleep  ere 
we  reach  the  City  of  Visions,  for  sorrow  must 
be  forgotten  before  joy  can  come.  I  have  no 
sorrow  to  forget,  for  you  have  filled  all  my 
days  with  happiness,  and  so  I  shall  pass  by 
the  Water  of  Forgetfulness,  stooping  only 
for  a  single  one  of  the  Lilies  of  Rest.  I  shall 
pass,  too,  the  fragrant  beds  of  lavender  and 
rosemary,  leaving  the  healing  herbs  for  those 
who  need  them  most. 

The  House  of  Dreams  uplifts  its  shadowy 
towers  at  the  gate  of  the  City  of  Visions. 
Half-forgotten  stories  and  lost  childish  beliefs 
are  hidden  in  the  dim  chambers,  with  all  our 


Ubc  1JOU8< 
of  2>ream 


84 


Xatec  Sieve  Xetters  of  a  flDusician 


"Cbe  fjousc 
of  Breams 


hope  for  the  coming  days.  Unreturning  ships 
are  pictured  on  the  tapestry  that  is  woven,  as 
Penelope's  of  old,  with  all  our  little  deeds. 

Once  in  the  House  of  Dreams,  the  traveller 
may  choose,  but  he  must  first  seek,  as  I  do 
now,  Our  Lady  of  the  Garden. 

There  will  be  a  smile  of  recognition  on  her 
silent  lips,  for  she  knows  this  suppliant  of  old. 
The  amber  talisman  of  her  enchantment  is 
hanging  at  her  side,  but  she  will  give  me  the 
tiny,  worn  key  which  is  mine  alone  and 
which  leads  me  to  the  dearest  place  of  all  — 
the  old,  sweet  dream  of  you. 


Catbebrai  of  tbe  Deep 

Xatgbetto 


DAS  RHEINGOLD 


WAGNRR 


l=t^^- 


86 


Catbefcral  of  tbe  Beep 


TO-NIGHT,  with  the  sound  of  the  waves 
upon  the  bar,  has  come  a  melodious  un 
dertone.  The  low,  full  chords  are  instinct 
with  minor  music,  as  though  the  sea  were 
grieving  for  the  summer  that  is  gone. 

When  out  of  the  mystery  of  the  night  the 
ghostly  breakers  roll  to  shore,  the  solemn 
chant  is  deepened  till  it  is  one  with  the  return 
ing  flow.  When  the  tide  swells  on  its  way 
to  flood,  the  strange  melody  becomes  a  siren 
spell  —  with  the  ebb  it  is  a  requiem,  a  hymn. 

Afar  in  the  unsounded  vastness  is  the  Cathe 
dral  of  the  Deep.  Its  stately  spires  of  rock 
and  coral  glimmer  in  the  green  sunshine,  and 
the  majestic  columns  of  stone,  dividing  nave 
from  transept,  have  been  sculptured  by  the 
hands  of  the  centuries. 

Here  is  an  infinite  rest.  The  long  aisles 
never  echo  to  the  tread  of  human  feet,  and  the 
cup  of  communion  is  never  touched  by  living 


88 


SLater  %o\>e  ^Letters 


Ube 

CatbeSral 
of  tbe 
Beep 


hands.  Upon  those  altars  hearts  may  lie  for 
ever  without  the  fear  of  hurt,  while  the  ever- 
changing  sea-voice  still  calls. 

The  organ  tones  of  the  surf  thunder  through 
the  silence  and  die  away,  the  deep  notes  of 
tide  and  tempest  awake  no  answering  sound, 
and  the  harp  of  wind  and  rain  becomes  a 
whispered  cadence,  so  far  is  that  Cathedral 
beneath  the  wave-worn  plain. 

Green  meadows  tinged  with  crimson  lie 
there  in  peace  like  that  of  a  midsummer  noon. 
Far  down  the  ocean  valleys  are  wide  reaches 
of  golden  sand  laid  in  mosaic  of  shell  and 
pearl.  Sea  lace  swings  through  shadowy 
groves  of  coral,  and  soft  green  filaments 
weave  fairy  fabrics  in  and  out  of  the  dark 
moss. 

Only  the  Children  of  the  Sea  may  wander 
there.  Nymphs  and  mermen  may  pass  un 
challenged  through  the  Cathedral  gates,  or 
float  through  the  wondrous  meadows  and 
drink  the  lotus-wine  in  which  the  earth-born 
find  the  lees  of  death. 

For  when  the  banners  of  the  tempest  are 
flung  athwart  the  midnight  heaven,  shot 
through  with  strange  javelins  of  lightning  and 


a  /IDusfcian 


89 


blue  flame,  the  undertone  upon  the  bar  swells 
to  a  dominant  crescendo,  ringing  with  im 
perious  behest. 

With  the  crashing  of  the  thunderous  chords 
sounds  a  solemn,  far-off  chime,  now  low, 
now  clear  and  strong,  now  hushed,  yet  ever 
full  of  defiant,  insistent  command. 

And  the  troubled  hearts  on  shore  stand  still 
for  the  moment,  faint  with  mysterious  pain, 
for  it  is  the  bell  in  the  tower  of  the  Cathedral 
of  the  Deep — calling  the  dead  to  prayer. 


Catbc&val 
of  tbe 

Seep 


Cbiforen  of  tbe  Sun 

Dolante 


BUTTERFLY    Op.  41 

Allegro  Grazioso 


GKIKC 


i  •   q 


\s&        ^3*~~     t§!        &s? 


92 


Cbllfcren  of  tfoe  Sun 

THE  trees  are  laden  with  strange  fruit. 
After  all  the  leaves  have  fallen  and  the 
autumn  winds  have  sent  them  wandering 
widely  upon  the  earth,  mysterious  man 
sions  are  disclosed,  builded  upon  the  bare 
branches  or  hanging  by  a  single  silken  thread, 
standing  out  with  peculiar  distinctness  against 
the  December  sky. 

The  tiny  furry  creatures  that  through  all  the 
sweet  summer  made  glad  holiday  in  the  woods 
and  fields  have  spun  and  woven  a  covering 
that  defies  the  fingers  of  the  frost. 

The  outer  sheath  is  grey  and  fibrous,  but 
the  inner  layers  are  soft  and  fine  as  down. 
The  little  architect  is  fast  asleep,  like  a  hermit 
in  his  solitary  home. 

No  stress  of  wind  or  storm  reaches  his 
warm  hearthstone,  and  as  his  house  sways 
from  side  to  side  in  the  cold  blasts,  he  well 
may  fancy  it  is  June  again  and  that  he  lies  at 


93 


Volante 


94 


Xater  Xove  ^Letters 


Cbtl&ren 
of  tbe  Sun 


full  length  upon  a  twig,  looking  up  through 
fluttering  leaves  to  the  blue  and  silver  beyond. 

Within  that  silken  softness  lies  all  the  mira 
cle  of  life  and  growth,  and  safely  hidden  away 
in  the  darkness  the  builder  dreams  of  resur 
rection  and  the  transfiguration  yet  to  be. 

For  when  the  year-tide  swells  on  its  way  to 
flood,  and  the  mystic  spell  of  summer  lies  upon 
the  waiting  world,  the  woven  grey  cradle  will 
break.  From  its  dark  depths  will  flutter  a 
thing  of  wondrous  beauty,  as  though  a  tomb 
had  opened  for  the  passage  of  a  rainbow  and 
a  star. 

I  have  watched  the  chrysalis  when  it  first 
began  to  tremble.  For  a  weary  space  the 
imprisoned  soul  struggles  with  its  bonds. 
Then  at  the  farthest  end,  close  to  the  branch, 
an  opening  appears. 

Little  by  little  the  brilliant  moth  creeps  out, 
his  delicate,  dusty  body  folded  into  the  small 
est  possible  compass.  For  a  time  he  lies  in 
the  sun,  resting  from  his  toil,  the  expanding 
membranes  pulsing  as  though  with  longing 
for  the  untried  flight. 

Then  there  is  an  aspiration,  a  slow  uplift 
ing,  the  marvellous  wings  quiver,  and  with 


©t  a  /IDusician 


95 


majestic  circles  the  Child  of  the  Sun  moves 
toward  the  light  from  whence  he  came. 

When  the  far-off  elfin  trumpet  breathes  its 
clear  notes  on  the  air,  there  is  a  stir  of  life  in 
every  cell.  Fairy  moths  and  gorgeous  butter 
flies  answer  the  mystical  appeal.  The  things 
that  crept  upon  the  earth  and  with  divine 
patience  waited  in  a  self-built  tomb,  are  at 
last  as  free  as  the  air  in  which  they  move. 

Upon  those  splendid  wings  are  all  the 
colours  of  the  sunset  sky.  Disks  of  green 
and  azure  are  softly  set  upon  rose  and  crimson 
dust.  Wavering  lines  of  midnight  blackness 
are  traced  upon  misty  white  and  gold. 

The  distant  music  which  wakes  the  drowsy 
world  is  too  fine  for  our  straining  sense  to 
hear.  But  the  time  of  it,  if  not  the  sound, 
tunes  our  hearts  into  answering  melody  and 
to  the  beat  of  it  we  journey  all  our  days. 

For  the  song  of  the  world  is  all  of  love.  It 
is  this  which  fills  the  earth  with  the  divine 
theme  of  spring,  swelling  through  the  modu 
lations  of  June  into  the  symphony  of  summer 
and  harvest,  and  leaves  an  echo  of  hope  in  the 
white  hush  which  follows  its  farewell. 

It  is  this  which  transforms  the  grey  and 


Cbilbren 
of  tbe  Sm 


96 


OLater  %o\>e  ^Letters  of  a  flDusfcfan 


Cblftren 
of  tbe  Sun 


sodden  wastes  into  glorious  seas  of  colour, 
breaks  the  bonds  of  the  imprisoned  Children 
of  the  Sun,  and  turns  my  soul  forever,  as  a 
homing  pigeon,  toward  the  heaven  of  your 
dear  eyes. 


Host  IRiver 


NACHTSTUCK 

Andante    4—    <-*- 


SCHUMANN 


e^j  us  - 

4i»     ra-^i*  n{g-a_^-: 

&k4    1 

L£  —  2  —  E  —  ,'-  -i 

:3      ^       *      =C 


IRiver 


THROUGH  the  grey  meadows  of  the  Past, 
winds  Lost  River.  The  gentle  stream 
bears  all  the  driftwood  of  our  lives  toward  an 
unknown  sea.  Childish  griefs,  forgotten 
sorrows,  and  unrealised  fears  have  floated 
away  forever  ;  unfounded  faith  and  impossi 
ble  ideals  have  vanished,  too. 

We  shall  never  find  them  again.  Daytime 
visions,  idle  dreams,  and  all  the  splendid  archi 
tecture  of  fancy  have  fallen  into  the  resistless 
current  and  drifted  beyond  our  ken.  Little 
loves  and  little  joys  are  passing  on,  sweeten 
ing  for  a  moment  the  waters  on  which  they 
rest. 

Sometimes  all  the  labour  of  years  seems  to 
falter  for  a  space  upon  the  brink,  and  our  trem 
bling  hands  are  eagerly  put  forth  to  stay  the 
fall.  But  achievement  never  leaves  us,  though 
the  semblance  of  it  may  in  a  single  instant  be 
swept  away. 

The  slow  song  of  the  stream  sounds  ever 


100 


Xater  %ox>e  ^Letters  of  a  Musician 


in  our  ears,  and  the  sadness  of  it  enters  into 
our  supremest  joy.  The  love  which  seems  so 
great  for  the  moment  may  in  a  few  days  be  but 
a  passing  petal  upon  Lost  River — the  rapture 
which  is  as  wine  to  the  waiting  heart  may 
become  but  the  bliss  of  an  hour,  to  be  borne 
away  like  other  precious  things. 

Along  the  shores  of  the  River  are  the 
things  which  we  may  keep.  Little  loves 
which  never  passed  for  great,  dreams  that 
were  not  hopes,  and  all  the  wonder-world  of 
childhood  lie  forever  in  the  grey  meadows, 
where  the  tired  feet  may  wander  as  they  will. 
For  it  is  Memory's  divinest  gift  —  that  only 
pain  and  bitterness  slip  through  her  fingers. 
All  the  rest  is  left  to  light  the  dark  solitudes 
through  which  the  soul  must  go  alone. 

And  so  the  song  of  the  stream  should  bring 
solace,  not  fear.  For  in  a  little  time  the  grief 
which  tightens  round  the  heart  shall  vanish 
and  all  the  sweetness  of  life  remain. 

It  is  only  in  the  present  that  the  struggling 
soul  may  suffer,  for  the  fingers  of  Hope  have 
limned  beauty  on  the  face  of  the  Future,  and 
in  the  infinite  calm  of  Lost  River  there  is 
naught  but  repose. 


IOI 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A  KING  NKIDLINGHR 


ffitoS 


103 


3he  Vmlgbt  of  Castle  Cbrtetmas 

THE  day  of  days,  My  Lady  —  and  I  away  miegro 
from  you  ?  It  does  not  seem  possible  ! 
The  dear  memories  of  a  fivefold  happiness 
cluster  round  my  heart  and  make  me  realise 
my  loneliness  to-day.  But  it  is  only  for  a  lit 
tle  while  now. 

The  air  is  filled  with  music  and  rejoicing 
when  the  Knight  of  Castle  Christmas  takes 
the  world  by  storm.  The  light  of  stained- 
glass  windows  sheds  its  radiance  afar  upon 
the  snow,  and  distant  voices  blend  with  the 
rhythm  of  the  bells. 

The  ever-living  green  of  the  forest  bends 
with  unaccustomed  bloom,  and  pearls  and 
rubies  shine  amid  the  depths  of  mistletoe  and 
holly.  The  beat  of  hidden  strings  and  the  tap 
of  light  feet,  the  melody  of  childish  voices  and 
the  sounds  of  laughter,  echo  back  from  the 
stillness  in  reverberant  joy. 

For  the   Knight  of   Castle   Christmas  has 


Xater  Xove  Xetters 


Itntgbt  of 
Cattle 

Cbristmas 


come  back  again.  With  arched  neck  and 
fiery  breath  his  white  charger  bears  him  on 
with  the  swiftness  of  the  wind.  The  holly 
gleams  anew  at  his  approach,  as  with  the 
colour  of  his  scarlet  cloak,  and  his  silver  spurs 
set  the  depths  of  ice  alight  with  crystalline 
flame. 

His  lance  is  aimed  at  Selfishness  and  Pride, 
and  Envy  hides  in  its  own  darkness  when  his 
sword  flashes  from  its  scabbard. 

Chivalry  is  not  dead — nor  dying.  A  woman 
may  make  a  knight  of  the  man  who  loves  her, 
if  she  only  will. 

For  I,  my  Queen,  have  worn  your  token 
since  the  day  I  first  looked  into  your  eyes. 
With  your  gage  in  my  hand,  and  your  love  in 
my  heart,  there  is  no  knightly  thing  I  could 
not  do.  White  as  the  driven  snow  your 
colours  are,  and  I  have  tried  to  keep  them 
above  the  dust  and  to  carry  them  back  to  you 
unstained. 

For  no  reward  of  knighthood  is  so  precious 
as  this — to  keep  a  woman's  trust  untarnished 
and  in  the  answering  light  of  her  eyes  behold 
a  new  heaven  of  belief. 

See  how  the  Knight  of  Castle  Christmas 


Of  a  flDusician 


awakes  the  world  !  Hatred  dies,  malice  is 
forgotten,  and  distrust  is  dead.  The  discords 
of  life  are  resolved  into  harmony,  and  the 
spirit  of  giving  sets  the  soul  alight  with  gen 
erous  fire. 

In  the  frosty  heaven  shine  the  midnight 
stars.  Long  ago  they  sang  together,  but  the 
music  has  been  lost,  and  to-night,  from  the 
round  earth,  comes  the  melody  of  the  Christ 
mas  song. 

The  leafless  trees  in  the  forest  are  awake 
with  wonder.  The  lofty  pines,  that  rear 
cathedral  spires  against  the  white  hills,  are 
listening,  too,  but  they  know  and  understand. 

Thin,  childish  voices  swell  the  cadence  to  a 
higher  key.  The  words  are  all  the  same — in 
the  palace  of  the  king  or  in  the  little  hut  in  the 
wilderness. 

Christmas,  and  I  away  from  you  !  But  the 
memory  of  your  sweetness  is  ever  in  my 
heart,  and  I  should  choose  it  for  my  gift  above 
all  other  things. 

Oh,  best-loved  face  in  all  the  world  !  The 
days  pass  by  on  leaden  wings  when  only  in 
memory  your  dear  eyes  shine  for  me.  Though 
by  the  calendar  it  is  not  long,  by  the  heart  it 


io6 


OLater  OLove  letters  of  a  /Musician 


Ubc 
Tknfgbt  of 

Castle 
Cbrtetmas 


is  a  century.  But  you  and  I  will  be  together 
once  more — you  and  I  and  our  little  Spring 
time  Gift — when  the  Knight  of  Castle  Christ 
mas  comes  again. 


Weaving  of  tbe  J)ear 

/Hbaestoso 


107 


A  SONG  OF  FOUR  SEASONS 


FRANCES  ALLITSBN 


108 


109 


Weaving  of  tbe  H)ear 

UPON  the  vast  loom  of  Time  lies  the  ma 
jestic  web  of  the  year,  with  warp  of 
sun  and  woof  of  shadow,  the  colours  shading 
from  the  white  of  winter  to  the  rainbow  hues 
of  autumn,  then  back  to  snow  again. 

An  unknown  hand  has  set  the  pattern  and 
night  and  day  the  unceasing  work  goes  on. 
It  is  grey  at  first,  with  white  lights  relieving 
the  sombreness.  Leafless  trees  raise  their  help 
less  arms  to  the  unyielding  sky,  as  if  in  plead 
ing  and  prayer  for  spring.  A  belated  flock  of 
wild  geese  is  pictured  upon  the  tapestry,  and 
the  dark  sky  turns  to  turquoise  under  the 
witchery  of  sun  and  snow. 

The  opaque  whiteness  shades  gradually  into 
translucent  clearness,  and  the  rush  of  the 
March  wind  fills  the  fabric  with  waves  of 
silver  sheen.  Then  comes  the  drip  of  the 
April  rain,  the  first  violets  woven  on  the 
sombre  ground,  the  glint  of  a  bluebird's  wing, 
and  a  flash  of  scarlet  from  the  robin's  breast. 


flDaeatoao 


OLater  3Lo\>e  Xetters 


Ube 

UHeavtng 
of  tbe 


Then  a  world  of  pink  and  white  blossom 
ing  appears  on  verdant  slopes,  where  wild 
phlox  and  buttercups  make  soft  undertints  of 
yellow  and  blue.  June's  glorious  roses  riot 
through  the  weaving  in  splendid  masses  of 
colour,  and  all  the  summer  sweetness  adds  its 
magic  beauty. 

Green  wheat-fields  slowly  ripen  and  the 
roses  fall.  The  clover  fades  and  dies  and 
scarlet  poppies  shine  amid  the  gold.  The 
harvest  moon  swings  low  in  a  deep-vaulted 
heaven  ablaze  with  stars. 

The  autumn  tints  shade  in.  Splendid  vistas 
of  colour  stretch  from  side  to  side  of  the  loom. 
The  yellow  of  the  harvest,  the  crimson  of  the 
falling  leaves,  the  purple  wine-cups,  and  the 
distant  violet  hills  are  softly  blended  together. 

And  then  the  colours  change.  All  the  gold 
is  gone;  there  is  only  here  and  there  a  crimson 
touch  and  the  violet  is  softened  to  a  dreamy 
haze. 

Goldenrod  and  aster  repeat  the  old  colour 
ing  for  a  little  space,  and  then  this,  too,  is  gone. 
Brown  slopes  turn  to  grey,  and  sodden  No 
vember  skies  hide  the  changing  depths  of 
blue  and  silver. 


a  flDusician 


For  a  little  time  the  tapestry  is  dark,  but  all 
at  once  it  becomes  white  with  snow  and  shin- 

of  toe 

ing  ice,  as  it  was  in  the  beginning.  And  thus 
the  year  is  woven. 

With  the  sound  of  the  loom  has  come  the 
defiant  cry  of  the  winter  wind,  the  drip  of 
the  melting  ice,  the  patter  of  the  rain,  the 
sudden  rush  of  unbound  streams,  and  the 
first  robin's  cheery  song. 

The  bluebird's  notes  have  blended  with  the 
thrush's  springtime  gladness,  and  the  hum  of 
bees  through  the  clover  is  mingled  with  the 
meadow-lark's  sweet  melody.  The  sound  of 
reaping  has  come  through  the  stillness,  hushed 
to  a  lullaby  as  the  year  grew  old. 

And  then,  with  the  autumn  winds,  has  come 
the  litany  of  the  fall  rain,  then  a  hush,  then  a 
gentle  sigh,  then  the  long  silence  which  means 
farewell. 

To-night,  the  last  white  threads  are  woven 
in  the  fabric  of  the  year.  Already  it  is  mov 
ing  from  the  loom  and  ere  dawn  another  web 
will  be  laid,  with  the  white  fibre  in  both 
warp  and  woof. 

In  and  out  through  the  varying  years  we 
weave  our  little  lives,  and  never  can  the  weav- 


%ater  Xove  ^Letters  ot  a  /iDusician 


Ube 

Weaving 
oftbe 

JL'ear 


ing  cease,  for  the  uncertain  thread  in  our 
tremulous  hands  was  spun  by  the  Daughters 
of  Eternity. 

The  completed  centuries  lie  far  back  in  the 
past,  waiting  for  the  final  judgment  of  Him 
who  made  the  loom.  Through  two  or  three 
score  of  the  years  our  changing  destiny  runs, 
now  dark,  now  light,  and  now  touched  with 
gold. 

For  many  a  year  have  I  woven  mine,  in 
and  out  of  the  vast  tapestry,  following  some 
times  the  warp  and  sometimes  the  woof  of 
the  great  design.  I  have  made  mistakes,  I 
have  faltered,  1  have  broken  and  stained  my 
thread,  but  I  know  the  Weaver  will  forgive 
it  all.  Because  throughout  my  erring  toil  has 
run  a  single  thread  of  purest  gold,  unbroken, 
steady,  and  unstained.  You  know  what  it  is, 
My  Heart, —  my  love  of  you. 


PART  THREE 


113 


POEME  EROTIQUE 


GRIEG 


/t-ferJ~^  I 

i    i  i  i^^^ 
L_3  i 

r*-r         : 

r~ 

j 

g     =  — 

c 

116 


Efoe  Ibeart  of  Xove 

FROM  a  leaden  sky  grey  flakes  are  falling, 
changing  to  white  as  they  flutter  softly 
down.  There  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  so 
silent  as  this. 

With  wonderful  patience  the  wintry  clouds 
are  covering  the  earth  with  snow.  The  brown 
hollows  and  rocky  wastes  are  slowly  being 
hidden,  as  though  upon  a  soul  torn  with  doubt 
and  despair  should  descend  an  infinite  calm. 

In  the  universal  whiteness,  dividing  lines  are 
lost.  The  hedge  is  becoming  a  marble  wall, 
with  here  and.  there  its  dark  green  shining 
through.  The  sentinel  cedar  at  the  gateway 
is  hoary,  as  with  centuries,  and  all  the  trees 
are  bending  with  this  treasure  of  the  clouds. 

The  sun  is  shining  now  and  the  snow  falls 
faster.  Downy  masses  gleam  like  silver 
against  the  blue  of  the  breaking  sky. 

Through  the  air  the  unnumbered  Sprites  of 
Snow  are  making  a  merry  holiday,  blown 


3Later  £ot>e  ^Letters 


from  side  to  side  at  the  wind's  will.  One 
of  iwe  listens  for  the  echo  of  their  mad  laughter,  for 
getting  that  it  is  beyond  our  eager  sense. 

Underneath,  the  earth  is  sheltered  from  the 
cold.  The  oak  and  maple  roots  are  reaching 
out  tiny  tendrils  through  the  warm,  mysteri 
ous  darkness,  gathering  heat  and  moisture 
and  the  subtle  elements  of  the  soil  to  trans 
mute  into  summer  beauty. 

Windflower  and  anemone,  shielded  from 
the  frost,  will  flush  with  warmer  colour  when 
My  Lady  April  calls.  Violets  are  choosing 
their  ever-varying  purple,  and  from  the  lees 
of  the  autumn  wine  the  buttercups  are  dis 
tilling  ethereal  gold. 

Beneath  the  ice  of  the  marsh  streams  the 
lotus  and  the  lilies  lie,  with  the  crushed  and 
tattered  purple  flags  beside  them.  They,  too, 
are  waiting  for  the  transfiguration  and  the 
elysian  days  of  June. 

When  the  Maytime  measure  lilts  through 
the  world  again,  when  Nature  reads  upon  her 
missal  the  prayer  for  spring,  every  hidden 
blossom  shall  riot  into  bloom,  and  hearts  that 
have  lain  fallow  through  a  winter  of  doubt 
shall  again  believe. 


a  Musician 


119 


For  all  life  teaches  us  this  — in  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  tide,  the  sun  and  shadow  of  the 
day  and  night,  and  the  light  and  darkness  of 
the  year. 

We  are  wont  to  speak  of  material  things  as 
if  they  could  not  long  endure,  but  a  violet  will 
sometimes  last  longer  than  the  love  which 
gave  it,  and  a  crumpled  rose-leaf  breathe  fra 
grance  long  after  the  hands  in  which  it  lay 
have  gone  back  to  dust. 

Strange  Heart  of  Love  !  To  be  so  soft  and 
tender  for  a  little  while,  and  then  to  vanish 
like  a  phantom  of  the  night !  To  put  new  life 
into  every  sound  and  then  suddenly  to  take  it 
away  !  To  write  of  eternal  devotion,  and  be 
fore  the  words  have  faded  make  them  all 
untrue  !  To  vow,  and  then  forget,  as  the 
pyramids  of  Egypt  have  outlived  its  gods  ! 

But,  Heart  of  Mine,  the  great  love  does  not 
forget.  The  violets  and  roses  may  crumble 
into  ashes,  but  it  daily  takes  new  life.  It  is 
only  the  little  loves,  like  butterflies  in  the 
August  fields,  that  cannot  stand  the  stress  of 
cold  and  storm. 

Too  often  the  hungry  soul  mistakes  the  lit 
tle  love  for  the  great  and  repines  when  it  is 


Vbe 
Deact 

of  Xove 


OLater  %o\>e  ^Letters  of  a  fl&usicfan 


ttbe         taken  away —  not  seeing  that  the  imperious 

Heart        guest  demands  all  that  is  true  and  in  return 
of  love 

gives  nothing  that  is  not. 

Into  every  life  at  some  time  does  the  great 
love  come,  glorifying  even  the  unworthy  clay 
in  which  it  may  choose  to  dwell  into  a  thing 
of  surpassing  fairness.  But  there  can  be  no 
greater  happiness  than  this  of  ours,  when  one 
soul  is  tuned  to  another,  and  every  throb  of  my 
heart  is  answered  by  the  quick,  rapturous  beat 
of  yours. 


Soul  of  tbe  flDaster  Musician 


121 


TANNHAUSER 
Andante  Maestoso 

\3£  —  -*T-pF| 

WAGNBB 

hfr     *  ,."!•  |'(» 

kg*  h  '}   -F 

1  1  tr- 
^      J  '  J 

>     *     *  \ 

r 


122 


123 


Soul  of  tbe  flfcaster 


YOUR  thoughts  were  with  me  last  night, 
My  Lady  —  you  do  not  need  to  tell  me 
that.  And  when  the  eventful  moment  came, 
and  I  was  uncertain,  as  I  always  am,  I  said  to 
myself:  "It  is  for  her."  I  lost  concern  for 
the  five  thousand  people  who  were  waiting 
to  criticise  and,  as  in  a  vision,  saw  your  face, 
with  your  dreamy  eyes  turned  toward  mine. 

I  do  not  know  how  I  played,  for  I  had  for 
gotten  everything  except  you  and  my  violin, 
but  I  was  recalled  time  and  time  again.  When 
I  came  back  the  third  time,  I  saw  a  beautiful 
woman  in  a  lower  box  near  the  stage.  Her 
hair  and  the  poise  of  her  head  were  a  little 
like  yours,  but  in  her  eyes  was  a  look  that  I 
pray  may  never  be  in  those  I  love. 

She  was  off  her  guard.  For  the  moment, 
turned  away  from  the  others,  she  had  dared 
to  be  herself.  They  were  great,  deep  eyes, 
full  of  sorrow  and  appealing  tenderness,  and 


flDaestoso 


124 


outer  %ove  Xetters 


Ube 
Soul  of  tbe 

flDaeter 
flDusictan 


such  love  as  God  puts  but  once  in  any  human 
soul. 

She  tossed  a  rose  toward  me  and  it  struck 
my  violin,  caught  on  one  of  the  strings  and 
hung  by  a  single  thorn.  Some  one  laughed, 
but  the  incident  had  a  deeper  significance  for 
me.  I  knew  that  in  some  way  I  had  touched 
her  heart. 

And  so  for  the  encore  which  was  demanded 
I  played,  without  accompaniment,  the  sonata 
which  I  wrote  for  you  and  which  no  one  else 
had  ever  heard.  Long  ago  it  would  have  been 
impossible — it  would  have  seemed  a  desecra 
tion,  but,  in  my  new-found  sense  of  kinship 
with  the  world,  it  was  the  only  thing  to  do. 

You  know  what  it  is,  My  Heart, — the  story 
of  our  love  and  what  I  think  God  meant  his 
holiest  gift  should  be.  Love  that  is  absolute, 
unchanging,  and  immortal  —  whose  divine 
white  fire  endures  through  flood,  and  shines 
even  in  the  darkness  beyond  the  grave. 

When  it  was  finished,  I  glanced  at  her. 
Understanding  was  in  her  eyes,  but  not  con 
tent.  She  knew,  then,  what  love  should  be, 
and  it  had  been  denied  or  lost.  I  was  help 
less — my  sonata  had  been  in  vain. 


a  /iDusiciau 


And  then  the  orchestra  began  the  Overture 
to  Tannhauser.  In  those  first  deep  notes  lies 
the  very  soul  of  the  Master  Musician — com 
prehension,  universal  sympathy,  and  deep, 
abiding  love.  Out  of  the  wilderness  of 
temptation  the  heavenly  melody  came  like  a 
prayer  of  faith.  And  at  the  end  that  splendid 
cry  of  triumph,  which  must  put  new  courage 
into  any  faltering  heart,  swelled  into  a  magni 
ficent  paean  of  praise  and  joy. 

As  the  audience  rose  to  go,  I  caught  my 
last  glimpse  of  her.  The  soul  of  the  Master 
Musician  had  touched  her  own  with  consola 
tion,  for  upon  her  face  was  ineffable  peace 
and  the  fire  of  new  strength  was  in  her  eyes. 

And  perhaps  the  great  heart  that  sleeps  in 
the  dust  of  the  Fatherland,  stung  to  the  last 
by  the  taunts  and  jeers  and  persecutions  of  his 
almost  innumerable  enemies,  will  know  some 
day,  if  not  now,  of  the  heavenly  balm  which 
his  music  brought  to  one  suffering,  world- 
scarred  soul. 

We  cannot  think  him  dead,  though  he  has 
lain  so  long  in  the  breast  of  his  beloved  Ger 
many,  unmindful  alike  of  scorn  and  praise. 
But  if  it  be  immortality  to  live  anew  with 


Ube 
Soul  of  tbe 

toaster 
flDusfcian 


126 


%ater  3Lo\>e  1/etters  ot  a  flDusician 


Ubc 
Souloftbe 


Musician 


every  sound  of  his  God-given  inspiration, 
even  now  it  is  his.  And  if  it  be  reward  to 
strike  the  souls  of  men  into  white  heats  of 
daring,  and  to  fill  their  hearts  with  the  tender 
light  of  love,  that,  too,  is  his,  though  it  come 
too  late  for  him  to  know. 


Cits  of  flame 

allegro  iPeloce 


127 


DIE  WALKURE    (MAGIC  FIRE) 

Massig  Bewegt 


WAGNKR 


— rrvr- *TBTI ^ — ~ — » » ;M — -m — '^  n^ -~ — •• 

^^T^rfr=^^^ 


M. 

9 


| 


128 


129 


M 


dtp  of  ]f lame 

Y  hearthstone  to-night  is  the  gateway  of 

/-•*        TU      i  8>elocc 

a  mysterious  City.     The  glowing  por 


tals  have  opened  and  disclosed  a  scene  of  gor 
geous  beauty.  It  is,  in  truth,  an  Angel  with 
a  Flaming  Sword  that  stands  at  the  entrance 
as  a  sentinel. 

From  side  to  side  of  the  fireplace  flows  a 
molten  river  with  a  sheen  like  burnished  gold. 
Here  it  broadens  to  a  fiery  flood,  reflecting 
light  and  colour  into  the  darkest  shadow  of 
the  room. 

Tiny  pools  of  resplendent  crimson  lie  in  the 
sunset  hollows  among  the  rocks.  Radiant 
trees  emblazon  dazzling  branches  upon  the 
distant  sky. 

Graceful  minarets  and  towers  of  flickering 
flame  glitter  amid  the  glory.  Lambent  ban 
ners  flaunt  blazing  pageantry  upon  the  shim 
mering  air,  and  luminous  spiders  weave  webs 
of  light. 


130 


Xatec  Xove  Xetters 


ctt*ot 


Bending  fields  of  glittering  grain  lie  far 
beyond  the  City,  and  tiny  stars  shine  for  a 
moment  through  the  smoky  clouds. 

Outlined  against  the  midnight  blackness  a 
flight  of  golden  swallows  thread  their  spark 
ling  way  through  the  dark.  They  pause  for  a 
moment  as  if  to  rest,  then  suddenly  disappear. 

In  the  far  depths  of  the  City  of  Flame  is 
a  scene  of  wondrous  activity.  The  Little 
People  of  the  Fire  seemingly  do  not  know 
the  meaning  of  idleness. 

Fairy  craft  are  set  afloat  upon  the  glowing 
tide,  like  argosies  destined  for  ports  unknown. 
They  are  laden  with  strange  wares  of  warmth 
and  colour,  dream-stuffs,  and  the  jewels  of 
the  City.  Gold  dust  is  sifted  from  the  sunset 
light  along  the  molten  river  and  stored  in  the 
treasure  ship  of  the  elfin  fleet. 

Other  workers  are  rearing  splendid  palaces, 
their  gates  carved  of  ruby  and  gold,  Banquet 
halls  stretch  their  stately  length  through  these 
royal  mansions,  their  sculptured  pillars  set 
with  stars. 

Afar  in  the  bending  fields,  where  the  crys 
talline  air  touches  the  fiery  grain  with  a  new 
glory,  there  is  a  sudden  shower  of  meteoric 


a  /TCmsician 


rain —  a  thousand  sparks  descending  upon  the 
harvest  and  driving  the  workers  home. 

Over  in  the  shadow,  beneath  a  cloud  of 
smoke,  the  Little  Fire  Mothers  are  swaying  to 
and  fro  with  their  tiny  children  cradled  on 
their  shining  breasts.  Through  the  rush  of 
the  flames,  in  an  undertone,  comes  the  melody 
of  the  fire  lullaby,  with  a  far-off,  haunting 
sweetness  that  makes  one  lean  close  to  hear. 

But  twilight  comes  to  the  City  of  Flame. 
The  Little  Fire  Mothers  cease  their  tender 
song.  The  light  on  the  river  trembles  into 
rose,  and  flickering  leaves  fall  from  the  trees. 
The  sails  of  the  treasure  fleet  are  lost  in  the  dis 
tance  and  the  busy  workers  have  gone  home. 

Slowly  the  splendour  dies.  No  longer  does 
the  light  leap  to  the  distant  corners  of  the 
room.  The  grain  fields  lie  in  darkness  and 
the  golden  swallows  are  gone. 

And  then  a  haze  of  grey  smoke  veils  the 
dying  embers.  And  by  some  grace  of  magic 
the  soft  shadows  make  a  woman's  face,  up 
lifted  tenderly  to  mine. 

Ah,  Little  People  of  the  Fire,  ye  have  well 
deserved  your  rest,  for  this  is  the  fairest 
witchery  of  all  —  the  vision  of  her  I  love. 


TWUne  of  Xifc 

Cantabile 


133 


DIE  MEISTERSINGER    (WALTER'S  PRIZE  SONG) 

T^  WAGNKII 


-J— «- 


134 


'35 


ZEbe  Mine  of  %ife 

THROUGH  all  our  little  day  we  are  toilers 
in  the  Vineyard  of  the  World.  Some 
times  the  grapes  are  sweet,  often  they  are 
bitter,  and  yet  in  the  wine-press  all  distinc 
tions  are  lost — so  much  depends  upon  the 
heart. 

There  are  some  whose  path  lies  along  the 
upland  slopes.  Soft  soil  is  under  their  feet, 
the  sun  shines  longest  on  their  way,  and  the 
fragrant  purple  clusters  are  within  ready 
reach.  Yet  it  may  be  a  bitter  wine  which  these 
restless  hearts  distil — with  poison  in  the  lees. 

Some,  whose  lot  is  cast  in  the  valley,  find 
the  way  overgrown  with  weeds  and  thorns. 
Through  the  dense  undergrowth  the  vines 
wander  for  a  space  and  are  often  lost.  Only 
the  unripe  fruit  is  to  be  found  here,  in  the 
tangled,  neglected  vines,  forgotten  even  by 
the  sun. 

And  still  the  toilers  in  the  valley  do  not 


Cantabfle 


136  %ater  %ot>e  Xetters 


falter.  Hoping  always  for  better  things,  they 
keep  up  the  search,  and  the  wine  which  they 
distil  is  clear  and  fine,  with  light  lying  far  in 
its  amber  depths. 

There  are  many  kinds  of  grapes  in  the 
Vineyard  —  peace,  pleasure,  and  content  are 
haply  gathered  by  some.  Others  find  only 
sorrow  and  suffering,  but  in  the  wine-press 
of  a  brave  heart  this  meets  with  wondrous 
change.  Sometimes  weakness  and  bitterness 
become  strength  and  sweetness,  and  some 
times  the  pain  is  mellowed  and  given  back  to 
the  world  —  transmuted  into  Art. 

You  and  I,  My  Lady,  are  among  those  who 
walk  upon  the  upland  ways.  I  think  it  is 
because  you  have  placed  your  hand  in  mine 
and  the  Keeper  of  the  Vineyard  will  not  let 
your  tender  feet  descend  to  the  valley  and  the 
plain. 

We  have  gathered,  too,  the  fruit  which  some 
have  found  bitter  and  to  us  it  has  been  divinely 
sweet.  We  have  had  but  few  of  the  Grapes 
of  Gold  for  which  every  toiler  in  the  Vineyard 
strives  —  and  we  have  laughed  at  those  who 
were  so  eager  in  the  quest. 

Wistful  eyes  have  looked  in  ours,  but  our 


©t  a  /Musician 


137 


lips  are  dumb.  The  secret  lies  beyond  all 
words,  for  it  is  light  and  colour,  not  sound, 
and  only  those  who  share  it  with  us  may 
know  that  our  Wine  of  Life  is  sweet  because 
we  love. 


Ube 

TDUfne  of 
*ifc 


JBuilfcera  of  tbe  ffroat 

ScbcrsanOo 


139 


DANCE  OF  THE  GNOMES 

Presto  Scherxando 

FKANZ  LISZT 

Pf          J^ 

'lir^-r  £= 

K. 

& 

\|>*-7  *  H 

J  •                *  i*        1 

fcr- 

£be  Builfcere  of  tbe  jfrost 

LAST  night,  after  the  concert  was  over,  I 
went  for  a  walk  in  the  woods.  It  was 
long  after  midnight,  but  I  was  never  wont  to 
choose  times  and  seasons  for  my  wandering. 
I  laughed  to  myself  as  I  started  across  the 
fields,  for  other  people  would  seriously  ques 
tion  my  sanity,  but  I  knew  you  would 
understand. 

It  was  an  enchanted  night.  The  air  was 
clear  and  cold,  and  yet  soft  as  with  coming 
spring. 

Like  solemn  sentinels  two  stalwart  pines 
guarded  the  path  at  the  entrance  to  the  forest.  I 
caught  their  fragrant  breath  as  I  passed  un 
challenged  into  Nature's  sublime  cathedral, 
whose  pillars  are  the  stately  trees,  whose 
roof  is  the  deep-vaulted  heaven,  and  whose 
rock-hewn  altars  have  no  incense  but  the  love 
of  every  living  thing. 

My  footsteps  made  no  sound,  for  the  wood- 


142 


Xatei*  Xox>e  ^Letters 


•Cbc 
aSufl&crsof 
tbe  ffrost 


land  streets  were  dumb  with  snow.  The 
soft  carpet  had  covered  every  hollow  and 
every  dead  leaf,  as  though  the  whiteness  and 
holiness  of  a  great  love  had  hidden  every  scar 
on  a  human  heart. 

Beneath  it  lay  the  lost  violets  of  May, 
dreaming,  perhaps,  of  the  resurrection  yet  to 
be,  while  the  old  miracle  went  on  in  the  dark 
stillness  of  the  soil.  And  in  the  very  earth 
was  a  magic  world  of  winding  streets  and 
mysterious  caverns,  where  the  drowsy  Little 
People  of  the  Forest  awaited  the  trumpet- 
call  of  the  March  winds. 

As  if  in  compassion  for  the  leafless  trees, 
the  tiny  Builders  of  the  Frost  had  covered 
each  separate  bough  to  the  farthest  twig 
with  transparent  crystal.  Only  the  pines 
were  dark,  and  their  lower  branches  were 
heavily  laden  with  snow  and  their  aromatic 
cones  tipped  with  ice. 

In  majestic  slowness  the  late  moon  rose  and 
the  vast  cathedral  assumed  a  strange  beauty. 
The  broad  breast  of  the  river  was  a  sheet  of 
silver,  reflecting  a  vibrant  sheen,  like  a  shim 
mering  veil,  until  it  was  lost  among  the  hills. 

Close  to  the  stream  where  the  overhanging 


@t~  a  Musician 


143 


bank  had  kept  away  the  snow,  the  fairy 
workers  had  made  a  wondrous  city.  The 
slender  spires  of  marsh  grass  had  been  over 
laid  with  chalcedony  and  at  the  top  of  each 
was  set  a  single  star.  Minarets  and  towers 
were  of  a  dazzling  whiteness  ;  the  elfin  streets 
were  paved  with  iridescent  pearl. 

Under  the  clear  ice  of  the  river  I  could  see 
here  and  there  a  sculptured  pillar,  supporting 
a  roof  carved  in  tracery  and  fretwork  of  mar 
vellous  design.  The  starry  asters  and  feathery 
goldenrod,  the  ferns  and  falling  leaves,  with 
only  their  colour  gone,  were  laid  in  ivory 
mosaic  and  arabesque.  Sometimes  a  bit  of 
frosty  lace,  woven  like  the  spider's  web,  was 
laid  in  filagree  upon  the  shining  silver  of  the 
stream. 

From  the  unbroken  drifts  far  beyond  came 
the  sparkle  of  a  thousand  jewels.  A  tiny 
drop  hung  from  the  end  of  a  twig  and  broke 
a  passing  moonbeam  into  an  opal  mist.  Frosty 
flakes  began  to  fall,  each  alight  with  the  tints 
of  a  lost  summer  rainbow  and  the  diamond 
sparkle  of  moon  and  snow. 

I  heard  a  dreamy,  half-whispered  chirp 
from  somewhere  and  my  heart  beat  faster. 


144 


Xater  Xove  ^Letters  of  a  dDusician 


Ube 
SSuflCcrs  of 
tbe  f  roat 


Up  in  the  tall  plumes  of  the  pine  there  must 
be  a  hidden  nest,  where  two  little  birds  were 
facing  winter  and  adversity  together. 

What  though  there  were  little  to  eat,  aside 
from  the  seeds  between  the  scales  of  the  pine 
cones,  and  here  and  there  a  forgotten  morsel 
of  grain  !  Why  should  they  care  for  the 
Frost  Builders'  eerie  spell ! 

I  knew  his  sheltering  wing  was  laid  over 
his  sweetheart's  delicately  arched  neck,  and 
that  her  bright  eyes  were  hidden  in  the  soft 
plumage  of  his  breast.  I  knew,  too,  the  joy 
that  throbbed  in  his  heart  when  he  drew  his 
true  mate  close,  for  nothing  matters  in  all  the 
world,  My  Life,  while  I  have  you  and  your 
unchanging  love. 


IDalentine 

andante 


145 


AVEU    Op.  9 
Passionata 


SCHUMANN 


146 


B  IDalentine 

THE  world  waxeth  old  and  colder  and  we 
hide  our  hearts  within  us  lest  their 
precious  essence  fade  away.  And  though 
we  love  each  other,  we  show  it  not  save  in 
dreams,  and  in  the  darkness  which  clingeth 
round  us  we  grope  blindly  and  alone. 

Sometimes  we  see  the  glimmer  of  a  far-off 
star  and,  reaching  it,  we  find  but  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp  which  leadeth  us  into  many  and  strange 
places.  But  after  much  deceit  and  stumbling 
we  come  at  last  to  the  True  Radiance,  which 
shineth  steady  and  clear  and  filleth  our  souls 
with  joy. 

And  when  the  light  thus  shines  into  the 
shadow  of  one's  life,  and  the  glory  of  it  gives 
fresh  courage  to  the  doubting  soul,  it  is  given 
some  to  weave  their  words  in  graceful  verse, 
but  I  must  write  to  thee  in  halting  prose  as 
best  becomes  my  gift. 

For  to  mine  unbelieving  sight  hath  that 


148 


2/ater  3Love  Xetters  ot  a  /Musician 


& 

Valentine 


light  so  come,  lying  in  the  sweet,  serene 
depths  of  a  woman's  eyes  and  kindled  in  the 
secret  chambers  of  a  woman's  tender  heart. 

And  so  to  thee,  beloved,  because  thou  hast 
ever  led  me  toward  the  heights,  and  because 
through  sun  and  storm  thou  hast  ever  loved 
me,  seeing  not  the  earthly  being  that  I  am,  but 
the  angel  that  I  long  to  be,  I  send  this  Valen 
tine  and  its  message  of  my  love  for  thee. 


{Trailing  Hrbutue 

Cantabile 


149 


SPRING  RUSTLE    Op.  Jt 
Agitato 


SlNDIHO 


150 


{Trailing  arbutus 

THERE  were  little  bunches  of  it  offered  for 
sale  in  the  city  streets  to-day,  brought 
from  the  far-off  summer-land  while  the  north 
still  lies  beneath  the  wintry  spell. 

For  a  little  space  around  it,  the  air  was 
sweet  with  the  subtle  fragrance  which  is  the 
very  essence  of  the  woods  and  hills.  Sound 
and  scent  are  most  potent  to  revive  sleep 
ing  memory.  A  half-remembered  strain  of 
an  old  song  will  recall  a  world  forgotten  under 
the  stress  of  daily  living,  and  each  separate 
flower  has  a  magic  all  its  own. 

There  are  few  of  us  to  whom  tuberoses  do 
not  mean  tears,  for  with  that  sweetness  come 
the  kisses  from  lips  that  we  have  lost  —  that 
shall  never  touch  our  own  again.  Mari 
golds  and  ragged-robins  will  bring  the  vision 
of  an  old  garden  ;  pansies  will  wake  the  dis 
tant  June  mornings  that  meant  joy  to  the 
childish  heart ;  poppies  and  sweet  thyme  will 


Cantabile 


152 


%ater  OLove  Xetters 


bring  solace  for  grief,   and  the  purple   lilac 
ciusters  win  f,n  the  troubled  soul  with  deep 

s 

content. 

A  passing  scent  in  a  city  street  and  an  hour 
of  reverie  following  it  —  why  do  we  say  that 
the  days  of  enchantment  are  over  ? 

Sad  memories  come  to  some  and  sweet 
thoughts  to  others  with  the  breath  of  a  single 
rose.  The  tired  lines  in  a  man's  face  will 
soften  when  the  odour  of  red  roses  steals  into 
the  busy  day,  for  these  are  the  lover's  gift. 
And  a  woman's  eyes  will  fill  and  sometimes 
her  lips  will  quiver  at  the  delicate  fragrance 
of  a  white  rose,  for  these  are  oftenest  put  in 
the  dead  hands  of  a  little  child. 

And  so  to-day  the  arbutus  brought  me  hap 
piness,  for  on  the  morning  we  found  it  first, 
I  discovered  that  I  loved  you  —  and  had  loved 
you,  all  unknowingly,  for  a  year. 

Do  you  remember,  Heart  of  Mine,  that 
April  day  on  the  hills  ?  We  were  walking  on 
the  dead  leaves  of  autumn,  that  had  not  yet* 
been  hidden  by  the  emerald  tapestry,  when 
of  a  sudden  you  sprang  away  from  me  and 
stooped  to  the  ground.  When  you  turned 
back  to  me  you  had  two  tiny  pink  clusters  in 


©f  a  Musician 


'53 


your  hands, — "  one  for  each  of  us,"  you  said, 
—  and  I  have  mine  still. 

For  there  was  the  light  of  an  April  dawn  in 
your  eyes,  and  all  at  once,  while  the  robin 
sang  above  us,  the  old  miracle  of  the  world 
was  achieved,  and  there  was  summer  in  my 
heart  for  all  the  years  to  come. 


"Grading 
Brbutua 


H  IRocturne 

Xento 


155 


NOCTURNE    Op.  J7.     No.  t 


CNOPIN 


156 


H  IRocturne 

IT  has  been  a  grey  day,  with  but  a  fitful 
gleam  of  light  at  noon.  To-night  the  sun 
went  down  behind  sodden  clouds  and  no  hint 
of  the  veiled  glory  reached  the  earth. 

But  in  the  mysterious  East  there  was 
witchery  in  store.  The  clouds  lifted  and  dis 
closed  the  crescent  moon  a  little  above  the 
horizon.  The  ivory  and  pearl  slowly  changed 
to  silver  and  then  to  gold. 

Softly  the  darkness  fled,  and  the  Enchantress 
of  the  Night  continued  her  majestic  way  to 
ward  the  zenith.  I  could  see  her,  lying  back 
in  the  crescent,  with  her  vaporous  robes  of 
grey  and  silver  hanging  athwart  the  heaven, 
and  her  misty  hair,  like  illumined  star-dust, 
hiding  the  beauty  of  her  face. 

The  dark  clouds  grew  iridescent  at  the 
edges,  reflecting  violet  and  opal  light  in  the 
shadows  and  suffusing  all  the  East  with  a 
tender  glow.  The  blue  rays  of  the  love-star 


i58 


OLater  3Lov>e  Xetters 


gleamed  steadily  and  in  the  White  Way  were 
•nocturne     get  unnumbered  pearls. 

In  the  vast  silences  of  her  palace  halls  she 
moves  in  royal  loneliness.  She  has  no  com 
rade  in  all  the  universe.  Her  festal  lights  are 
set  for  her  alone. 

Sometimes  her  fiery  messengers  flame 
through  the  heavens  in  search  of  her  true 
mate,  leaving  a  luminous  wake  along  their 
uncertain  way.  Sometimes  a  single  one  of 
her  waiting  candles  burns  low  and  we  say  it 
is  a  falling  star. 

The  Lost  Pleiad,  too,  is  away  upon  her  er 
rand,  drifting  upon  the  uncharted  midnights, 
while  Sirius  guards  the  approach  to  the  throne. 
For  countless  centuries  she  has  waited,  lean 
ing  from  the  balcony  of  her  night  to  watch 
for  her  coming  King. 

Afar  upon  the  earth  her  old  slave  lies  in 
bondage,  forever  chafing  at  his  chains.  Rest 
less,  hoary,  and  impassioned,  he  follows  her 
eternally  with  every  throb  of  his  tempestuous 
soul. 

Now  he  woos  her  to  the  time  and  heart 
beat  of  the  breaking  surf  and  now  to  the 
melody  of  the  summer  winds.  Now,  rising 


a  /IDusician 


'59 


to  the  heights  of  sublime  passion,  his  deep 
voice  melts  into  pleading  and  prayer.  Siren 
music  blends  with  his  serenade  and  yet  she 
hears  him  not. 

Upon  her  unapproachable  heights,  she 
waits  in  serene  patience  for  the  lover  who 
does  not  come.  For  him  only  will  she  unveil 
her  face,  and  for  him  only  will  the  starry  eyes 
shine,  unshadowed  by  the  ethereal  gold  of 
her  hair. 

The  Northern  Lights  are  aflame  to-night 
upon  the  distant  sky,  in  spires  of  luminous 
mist.  The  masses  of  cloud  are  slowly  drift 
ing  away.  One,  blown  by  some  wandering 
wind,  for  a  moment  obscures  the  moon. 

In  an  instant  all  is  dark.  Only  the  aurora 
and  the  starlight  send  a  little  gleam  upon  the 
shadow.  Then,  with  unspeakable  splendour, 
the  crescent  emerges  from  the  cloud. 

"  Thou,  thrice-dear  being  set  in  woman's  mould, 

Hast  risen  through  my  night  more  bright  than  this." 

There  is  no  way  so  dark  that  you  cannot 
lead  me  safely  on,  for  the  eyes  of  the  heart 
need  no  light  to  see,  save  that  which  is 
kindled  there.  And  no  fiery  messenger  will 


• 

•nocturne 


i6o 


%ater  3Love  ^Letters  of  a  /IDusician 


a 

Hocturne 


ever  flame  through  the  clear  heaven  of  your 
soul  in  search  of  your  lost  love,  for  as  the  sea 
follows  his  beautiful  Enchantress,  so,  through 
the  world  and  after,  shall  I  forever  follow  you. 


"But  Miefcerseben" 

BnDante 


161 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN  L.  Li 

^T"* — -J — J  [  J  =_j*  j  |  i     s    i  = 


'•      -wr     ^t 


162 


"Huf  Wiefcerseben" 

THERE  are  only  three  days  more  before  I 
go  to  you,  but  ah,  My  Lady, —  those 
three  days  ! 

The  first  bugle  of  March  has  blown  and  the 
earth  has  thrilled  in  answer.  Buds  are  swell 
ing  on  the  bare  branches,  so  soon  to  change 
into  the  green-gold  boughs  of  spring. 

The  King  of  Day  has  turned  his  chariot 
wheels  toward  the  Summer  Solstice,  and  at 
the  distant  sound  all  living  things  have  trem 
bled  into  growth.  The  twigs  of  pussy-willow 
have  put  out  their  climbing  maltese  catkins, 
sweet  with  a  subtle  fragrance  which  defies 
the  searching  sense,  and  the  sap  is  rising  in 
the  hidden  labyrinths  of  the  orchard  to  break 
into  pink  and  white  bloom. 

But  there  are  dark  and  rainy  days  still  to 
come.  We  will  light  the  maple  logs  in  the 
fireplace  and  sit  by  the  cheerful  blaze  hand  in 
hand,  our  clasped  fingers  making  a  path  for 


164  3Later  %o\>e  Xetters 


love  and  understanding  to  cross  from  one  to 

aeben"       the  °ther' 

Above  all  other  charm,  I  think  you  have 

the  home  gift.  Only  the  stars  might  be  our 
light  and  only  the  sands  of  the  desert  our 
resting-place,  and  yet,  with  you,  it  would  be 
truly  home. 

I  wonder  now  how  I  have  lived  through  all 
these  months  away  from  you.  I  think  it  is 
because  we  are  so  nearly  one  that  it  has  not 
been  possible  to  separate  thought  from  thought 
and  soul  from  soul,  though  many  leagues  have 
lain  between  the  touch  of  lips  and  hands. 

In  three  days  I  shall  hear  your  voice  again, 
and  then,  through  all  the  coming  nights,  the 
little  candle  in  the  window  will  guide  me  to 
the  doorway  where  you  wait,  with  the  love- 
light  in  your  eyes. 

We  will  walk  among  the  lilacs  together, 
when  the  white  and  purple  bloom  drifts 
through  the  aisles  of  springtime,  and  the 
delicate,  haunting  perfume  sets  the  heart  to 
thrilling  with  the  beauty  of  the  world. 

There  is  a  little  phrase  which  seems  to  me 
to  hold  all  the  sweetness  of  the  lilac,  and  its 
inmost  meaning  is  beyond  translation.  Some- 


Of  a  /Musician  l6s 


way  it  brings  a  vision  of  the  early  summer, 
before  the  freshness  of  spring  is  quite  gone — 
some  parting  which  is  not  farewell.  It  is  only 
to  be  used  by  those  who  love. 

And  so,  when  one  writes  for  the  last  time 
to  her  whose  little  hands  have  held  his  heart 
for  many  years  in  a  true  and  tender  clasp, 
and  whose  exquisite  womanliness  hath  ever 
made  his  soul  to  bend  in  worship,  it  is  the 
word  of  all  others. 

And  so  — "  auf  wiedersehen." 


THE  END. 


"Huf 

TOlie&er. 


eeben  " 


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